


Impossible Things

by roxymissrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Curtain Fic, M/M, retired boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-14
Updated: 2011-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-19 09:23:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when you survive a thing you never expected to</p><p>Originally published 6-13-2010</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dhfpw/)

Things went pretty quiet when the end was averted. Shit still went wrong, but it was normal shit, wrong in normal ways. Sam had to laugh at that. Normal….

They stayed in Maryland for a few days, waiting…but Sam had slammed that pit shut pretty tight, and Dean had hit Ruby so hard with that knife her head almost came off and Castiel lit up like a bonfire and that was the last they'd seen of him. They waited for calls—from Bobby, or Chuck or Cas, but when a week went by and no one called they packed up, and they moved on.

Sam managed to convince Dean--through dint of screaming and punching and there may have been a swirly involved, but God, he was just so fucking tired of it all—to take some time off. It wasn't the end of the world after all. Not anymore. Dean tried the _people are dying without our help_ thing and Sam pointed out that while they were saving one person on this side of the state on the other side some poor shmuck would always be losing his liver, his heart…Sam knew damn well that was a harsh thing to say and it made Dean look at him with white showing all around his eyes but you know, Sam just couldn't be bothered to care, not totally, not at that moment. He wanted to lay down, go to sleep and wake up some other year. It'd be a nice year too, one in which Dean and he had a great house, and a great life and maybe, maybe they still shared a house, probably just temporarily, but still. Because that's what they did, they shared things.

Later, they'd save people. Right now, they needed to save each other.

They drove a long, long time, changing off, one sleeping while the other ate and drove, until they were somewhere warm, some place with sun all the time and no dark corners. The town they fetched up against was small, and the people were unnaturally friendly. At least, that's what Dean kept saying under his breath, eyes narrowed and fixed on anything that crossed in front of his laser-like glare. Sam just laughed it off. There was nothing to be afraid of here. He'd feel if it was. Because sure, he'd told Dean that he'd used all of his mojo to shut down Lucifer, but he'd lied. Better for Dean. Peace of mind. Less _underpants in his crack_ face. So anyway, pretty much a dead spot, supernatural-wise. No demons. No angels. No echoes from the spirit world—no dangerous ones, anyway. Safe.

Dean stared out on the little main street and shoved a dripping burger into his mouth. Sam gnawed his way through a turkey club and thought, _this is it. We can stay put here, for a little bit, at least._ Dean turned his face from the window and aimed a small but warm smile at Sam, and tripped a circuit breaker in Sam's brain. The sun lit Dean's eyes, turned them coke-bottle green, clear and cool and wide enough to swim in, and his pupils were blacker than coal, blacker then the hint of that black Sam'd seen around the edges of Lucifer's light. Deep, and black, and eternal. And then Dean blinked, smiled wider, gargled his coke and broke the spell.

Sam settled back in his chair with a grateful sigh. Sometimes…he got caught up in that *thing* that Dean broadcast indiscriminately. He wiped the back of his wrist across his mouth and swiped mayo onto his chin. Dean smiled the little smile again and reached over and wiped it off. "Slob," he said, so fondly that Sam froze in panic. His throat worked, until finally a weak "Jerk," popped out.

Dean snorted and pushed the bill towards him.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

They argued a bit about stopping there. Dean wanted a cabin in the woods, far from everyone and everything. Sam wanted a place that they wouldn't have to plan a trip just to pick up toilet paper. Both of them laid out the pros and cons of their individual plans. Sam explained, with his knee in Dean's kidney and wiping away blood from under his nose, just how much better living in town would be then squatting in some shack in the asshole of nowhere playing Grizzly Adams, and Dean had to agree. Sam was gracious in victory, and filled the car's tank, ignoring Dean mumbling about mutant freak bitches…after all, he'd won.

They camped out in a motel on the edge of the town and perused the papers, looking for some place to drop their bags and take a breath.

"Hey."

Sam looked up from separating their dirty clothes from their dirtier clothes. "What?"

"Listen to this," Dean said and shook the newspaper smooth and Sam sighed. Nothing ever good happened after _listen to this._ "Police are still looking for information on a missing elderly man. Last seen at the Hampton Arms. The Hampton Arms have previously been the center of investigations concerning similar disappearances, though no investigations have resulted in charges."

"So?" Sam unfolded a t-shirt that practically crackled, glued together in the center with…not blood. And not his t-shirt, what the hell was it doing in his bag? Sam's face screwed up in disgust. His brother was an animal.

The animal huffed like it had a right to be annoyed. "Similar disappearances? No one's been charged?"

"It's probably a crack hotel. People disappear all the time," Sam said and let Dean's look of perplexed horror slide right off him. "Dean. Let it *go*."

"I'm just going to take a look, is all. C'mon, you're not bored?"

"We haven't been in town for more than a couple of hours—how can you be bored?"

"Talent."

Sam refused to look. Scrubbed his palms against his thighs and felt the heat of a goofy grin bounce off his neck. "Let. It. Go."  
Brilliant advice, that. What happened was, he let Dean go, and stayed behind to think. Not pout. It wasn't true that he needed to get his way all the time. If that was the case, Dean would be there, on the bed, watching TV and teasing Sam and sitting close. And not jerking away when Sam tilted a little and accidentally dropped his head onto Dean's shoulder. Whatever.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

"So…a ghost?"

"A ghost! Classic—cold spots, moaning, shit moving, yeah. So anyway, the dude owns the building was all coy at first but finally gives it up and begs for help. Some psycho used the place as his hunting grounds fifteen, twenty years ago until he was tracked there and shot dead by the cops. Thing is, it wasn't the guy causing trouble. This ghost was a chick."

Sam watched Dean's face as he talked, lit up like a candle. Thought, this is what Dean's made for—not dealing with those winged dicks, fighting off the end of the world shit—it was this. Salt and burns, putting dead things to rest—helping people, looking into their eyes and giving them hope. The one on one. He felt kind of guilty not letting Dean have that but he'd get over this guilt just like he'd get over the mountainous pile of guilt already teetering in his brain. Fuck it. He'd learn to make pie and Dean would be happy.

"Hey! Are you listening to me?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, you big ghost hunter, yaddah yaddah."

"Bitch. Perfect object lesson, Sammy. never go off with a stranger, ever." Like he thought Sam was still ten and could be lured away with bright shiny objects—

Sam blushed, refused to follow that train of thought to its inevitable, sticky train wreck conclusion and of course Dean kept right on yapping like he didn't notice..."Not even if they promise you a real nice room and a good meal 'cause that never ends well. Also, why kill someone and keep trophies? What's up with that?"

"Hunh?"

"Under the floorboards. Found like, a bracelet of hair. Gross. So, psycho whacks some chick and braids her hair into a bracelet and the poor dead chick turns all vengeful spirit and anyone in the apartment goes missing. Sad shit, man—quick fix though."

Sam leaned against the table, mouth open and eyes wide. "How in the hell…that was good work," he says at last.

"Fucking don't sound so surprised," Dean snapped. "What'd you think I was doing while you were sleeping the day away at Stanford? So anyway, the ghost is gone—oh, and we have an apartment."

"Hunh?"

Dean rolled his eyes this time. "Apartment—place to stay? Rootlets, like you've been nagging the ever-loving shit out of me for?" He rooted around in the tiny fridge and pulled out a bottle of water with a grimace.

"Really? All ready?" But…Dean didn't really ever do anything Sam wanted. He pretended to but not really. This was just…weird. "Really?"

"Yes, really. Turns out the dude owns the building was looking for a super, too." Dean grinned. "Free rent and money for nothing and a great place that I personally know is ghost-free."

 _Ew._ "Dean…super means repairs, tending to tenants. Listening to people."

"Yeah well, that shit I can do. Who do you think made some of those squats we were in livable? Dad?" Dean snorted and Sam winced. It was still taking him some time to get used to the Dean of _'Dad Was a Just Barely Decent Sort of Human Being But a Shit Father'_ instead of _Dad G. Winchester—G. Stands for God And Don't You Forget It._

"Anyway, that shit I can do easy, plus terrorize people into paying rent? No prob. And some of those tenants—hot, omg. I won't even have to leave the building."

"Jesus, Dean. Did you just really say OMG? Stop reading those fuckin' stories dude."

"Fuck you too, *dude*. Come on. We gotta get packed. Damien's gonna open the apartment for us."

"The owner's name is Damien…what's this place called again? The Bramford?"

"Wha?"

"The Bramford—Rosemary's Baby—you quote every fucking movie in the world and you don’t know Rosemary's—you know what? Let's just pack, okay?"

Dean stared at Sam, that Look. He heard him mutter 'freak', and it made Sam smile. Dean was coming back to him. Slowly but surely. Apartment…he grinned wide. Coming back and bringing him presents. And not second hand Barbies either.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

Sam circled the apartment's living room, feeling a little—a lot—out of his element. This was wrong, all wrong. It wasn't supposed to go like this. Dean wasn't supposed to be grinning at him, standing in a pool of sunlight with his arms spread like he'd done something especially neato-keen. This was all so fucking wrong and Dean was an asshole. So why did he feel like crying?

"Cool right? Rent free, mother-fucker. Tell me killing evil shit isn't a profitable skill. Gratitude, dude. That's what gets you the extra cookie. Now you can." Dean stopped, dropped his arms and the attitude and said, kind of soft, "now you cam relax and think, plan your future, right?"

Sam nodded, still adrift on a sea of _what the hell._ "It's nice. Um. Nice."

"Right? So I've got some paper work to fill out, and some fake ID to flash, and I'll be back." He tossed Sam the keys. "Unload the car, bitch."

"Fuck you," Sam murmured but Dean was already out the door. Sam looked around again at the sunny living room, down the hall to the bathroom and two tiny bedrooms, wheeled to look at the dining room and kitchen. Okay, he'd been expecting a sunless box in the basement. Didn't all supers live in the basement? He'd been expecting the smell of mold and dryer lint but--he sniffed--it smelled like apple pie. Because there was pie on the counter…Dean bought pie for an apartment warming gift. Sam stared for a long moment before the whole scene wavered like melted wax. "Ah," he said, "I get it. I'm dead. Or dying and this is what's left of my brain cells firing off before it's all over…."

He sat on the floor, and crossed his arms over his knees and waited for the show to stop. The fact that he was alone, no Dean in sight, was just the final proof. Whatever he'd thought he'd done in Maryland, it hadn't been winning.

The sun was out of the living room window, and he was still in the damn apartment and starting to get a back ache from sitting on the floor when the door flew open and his bags flew into the room.

"Do I have to do every fucking thing, you fucked up yeti, you—*Sam*?"

Sam turned red eyes up to Dean and said, "You came back."

"Duh—was only in the lobby, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Am I dead?"

Dean did a double take, said, "No, but I'm thinking maybe brain damaged." A range of expressions flashed over his face, annoyed changed to concerned, changed to fond. "It's really happening, Sammy. We're really okay—promise. We're alive. And I'm pretty fucking hungry so…."

It took Sam half a burger and a strawberry shake he didn't even like before he was willing to concede that yeah, he was alive and his pain in the ass brother had somehow, in some amazing way, really, truly, gotten them a real place to live. Sam grinned at Dean and Dean smiled back, soft, sweet, and kicked Sam in the shins so hard his chair rocked back. "Girl," he said, but Sam could hear what he really meant.

"Fuck you," Sam said, and figured Dean knew it meant, 'I'm glad you're my brother, too'….

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

2

Sam leaned back in the shadows of the room and watched the outdoors through the slats of the Venetian blind. Watched Dean wrestle a lawnmower out of the shed at the end of the building's parking lot. The mower looked antique, but Sam was sure Dean would be able to get it to do whatever he wanted it to; his brother was good like that.

Dean tensed over the mower, and Sam could see from the curve of Dean's back and the set of his shoulders he was checking the thing out--right now, Sam could tell, his brother was running through a mental checklist and just by eyeballing it, knew what it needed.

Dean shook his head and from Sam's third floor perch, he imagined he could hear Dean's exasperated sigh. Sam smiled. Hell, he was prepared for outrageous amusement—Dean mowing a lawn? The very idea made him snicker to himself. They'd never stayed anywhere that they'd needed to mow a lawn; at least Sam didn’t remember either of them ever doing something like that. He dashed into the kitchen and grabbed a soda, and raced back to his hiding place at the window. There wasn't anything weird about peeking out of a window and secretly watching your brother do yard work. Nothing wrong about it at all. Sam took a guilty sip of his coke and wondered if it was hot enough outside to wear shorts or maybe take your shirt off or sweat some. His fingers flinched, the brief tremor making them unsteady so he put his soda down and closed his eyes. Took a steadying breath. _God...._

When he opened them again, Dean was leaning over the mower, yanking on a string of some kind, trying to get the thing started. It gasped and coughed before it caught and then Dean started pushing it along the narrow strip of lawn that flanked the parking lot. He got as far as the bushes that defined the end of the lawn before suddenly dashing towards them. Sam wondered what he'd seen to make him run like that, cat, dog—something bad? Dean slammed to a sudden stop, and Sam understood, in an unpleasant rush, what his brother was doing, was throwing up in the bushes.

 _What the fuck…_ Dean swayed to a stop, his head hanging down, one hand swiping across his mouth and the other gripping his knee. It looked like he was shaking. Sam leaped up, ready to run down the stairs but Dean stood, squared his shoulders and pushed the mower onward….

Sam pushed away from the window. It wasn't fun anymore to watch. What was wrong, what made Dean do that? He couldn't figure it out, and stuff he couldn't unravel worried Sam. Was it this weird ass domesticity? Maybe it was being here.

Sam went back to his room.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

  
"Sam—your sugar daddy's back!"

"Yeah, fuck you. Took you long enough—you've been mowing forever." Sam turned and raked his eyes over Dean. He looked okay, sweaty and a little red, but that was to be expected. Trading a fairly nocturnal lifestyle for all this sun and stuff, maybe he was having to adjust or something…"What do you want to eat? I made BLTs but if you're not feeling well…."

"What? I feel fine. BLTs sound great." Dean dropped the tool belt he'd taken to wearing on the couch, and kicked his boots off. He walked into the kitchen, shoved Sam away from the fridge. "Thirsty."

Shoving him back somehow ended up with Dean leaning against Sam. Just for a quick minute, sure, but it was real, and Dean grinned at him before wandering back to the table, chugging ice tea straight from the carton. Sam felt the warm press of Dean's body even after Dean swaggered away and threw himself into one of the chairs and propped his sweaty, grimy, elbows on Sam's clean table. Which observation Sam thankfully managed to keep to himself—he'd already given Dean mocking material to last a lifetime. Couple lifetimes. Instead he addressed the other issue that was making him feel like kicking the crap out of his brother.

"Gug, you disgusting slob. I was going to have some of that tea, you know."

"Oh please, like we haven't shared grosser fluids than spit—" Dean stopped and flushed. "You know what I mean."

Sam laughed, kind of high and breathy, the way he did when he was seriously amused and he hated that he did it, it sounded so girly. "You know what they say about Freudian slips, Dean."

"Yeah, they go great with your pretty pink dresses. Shut up and feed me bitch. So--'' he continued after Sam dropped a plate piled with sandwiches in front of him. "What are you going to do? Can't hang out in the apartment all day every day."

Sam frowned. "What, you getting tired of me hanging around already?"

Dean stopped eating and swept Sam with his eyes, tight and intense, seemed to relax after a second. "Well, no—but you gotta be bored. Put that giant brain of yours to use, right?"

"Why can't I help you?" Sam fumed when Dean had the nerve to laugh like he'd told the funniest joke ever.

"Because for one thing, you don’t know shit about this kind of stuff and also, you'd fucking blow yourself up trying to change a light bulb."

Sam might have been a little more insulted if it wasn't kind of true. But fuck, anyone could break a light bulb off in a lamp socket. And electrocute themselves a little bit trying to take it out…and the wiring in the dumps they lived in was so crappy that hey, it was no surprise he'd knocked out electric to the room…house…whatever. Like it never happened to anyone else. To his brother he said, "Fuck you."

Dean just grinned. And winked.

****

Later, they washed the dishes, elbows rubbing and bumping in the narrow space. They collided and rebounded like bumper cars, Dean singing softly, casually, in his surprisingly pleasant voice. It reminded Sam of when they were kids and sometimes Dean would sing to him, like really sing, not yell all screechy and warbley the way he did now, mostly in the car, to get on Sam's nerves. It was nice, and Sam smiled a lot, even while he dodged the water Dean thought was so fucking funny to flick at him. He felt good and even better when he managed to hit Dean square in the face with the sopping dishcloth.

For a guy who only spoke English and a smattering of Spanish, it was amazing how many curse words in other languages he knew…Sam was always learning something new about his brother.

****

  
After, they sat in the living room and talked about the television they'd buy soon as they could afford it, until it was time to go to bed. Dean slapped his shoulder before going off to his bedroom and closing the door on Sam. Sam listened at the doorway to the bump and rustle of Dean getting ready for bed until he started to feel a little queasy and lot like some kind of creep, before going off to his own bed.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

Sam thought about what Dean had said. He spent days thinking about it. He was right, it _was_ weak to be sitting around and letting Dean take care of him—again. Even though Dean didn't really seem to mind. He'd said what he said out of concern, Sam could tell that. It was time to do something, to find a life like Dean had, however temporary.

****

The town had a tiny library with few current books but a surprising amount of excellent information about schools. Then again, maybe not so surprising—he figured most of the kids in the area must be as eager as he'd been once upon a time to get the fuck out.

On the heels of that thought came a wave of grief-guilt-sadness-frustration. Easy to ride out, it was something he'd become used to. These days, he wasn't even sure what it meant—the loss of his lover, or the hope of a picture perfect life or maybe the desire for such a thing in the first place. Maybe it came from knowing that none of that had had any chance of being his. Or that he'd almost lost his brother without even thinking about it. His whole life was knotted, snarled, so entwined and turned in on itself he couldn't tease out the beginning from the end.

He raised his head and stared at the water marked ceiling, blinked back the hot weight in his eyes. It hurt, what he'd lost, and sometimes it felt like there was nothing in his life worth living for. Except for Dean. All he had left was a brother who was kind of high maintenance for a guy. Moody, bitchy as all hell, for all he complained what a bitch Sam was, no one could throw a bitch fit like Dean when he was pissed off….

Sam stared the length of the dark wood table. Drummed his fingers against the polished wood, pressed the callused pads into grooves cut by generations of disrespectful hooligans—scores of baby Deans. He'd lost those calluses at Stanford. How quickly they'd come back…and it hit him, all at once. A lot like getting punched in the gut.

Dean was getting ready to *leave* him. As soon as he was sure that Sam could take care of himself, he was going to leave.

Sam closed his eyes and waited for the sickening wave of fury to leach out of him.

Dean was an idiot. He wasn't ever going to separate _little_ from _brother_. Dean was going to try and keep doing Sam's thinking for him, keep jumping in front of the gun for him. His brother was a monumental asshole, and Sam was going to kick his fucking ass from one end of town to the other. What would it take to make Dean understand, it was done? There was no place he could be now except wherever Dean was. He didn't have anything to give to anyone else. He was a shell, filled with horror and guilt and shame. It didn't exactly make for a tempting package, not even for someone desperate enough to settle for a fixer-upper. Didn't have anything left to fix. And Dean. The stubborn sonofabitch refused to see that Sam had nothing to offer anyone.

Sam shook himself and glanced at his watch. Twelve. Dean would be coming in for lunch soon; he'd probably want more than peanut butter sandwiches. Demanding jerk. Maybe it'd be better to stop and pick up something on the way home, one of those precooked chickens he liked. The ones made mostly of salt and enough grease to gag a—a—whatever liked grease as much as Dean did.

If such a thing existed.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

On the way home, he passed a bookstore, an antique shop, a café, a bar, a bakery, a daycare center….

****

"I'm going to finish my degree."

Dean stopped chewing. Swallowed. "Hunh. All right then. Let me know when and where you want me to drop you. Shouldn't take long to wrap stuff up here—"

What Dean said sent Sam into babbling mode. "Jesus. I *meant* I'd go to school here. Online. It's possible--unless you'd rather go somewhere else. I go somewhere else. I just thought you were comfortable. I mean with me being here."

Dean leaned back in his chair, a look on his face Sam couldn't read. "Some day, you're going to have to go out on your own, right? It's, whada'ya call it, inevitable."

Sam stared at his brother, counted to ten, said 'fuck it' and threw a spoon at his head. "Fucking say it, *Dean*. Just tell me you don’t want me around." Which was stupid really, because of course Dean wanted him around, he was sure of it. More or less.

His brother stood and glared, and said, "You're such a pain in the ass, *Sam*." He buckled his tool belt around his hips, glared at Sam again before flipping him off and storming to the door.

Sam yelled, "You just wear that stupid belt because you think it makes you look hot—well, it doesn't!"

The apartment door slammed shut, hard enough to shake the thrift shop prints Sam had hung on the walls. Sam stared after, two things on his mind—how hot his brother looked with that tool belt hugging his hips and how much he wished Dean cared the same way back.

He felt so sad, and it was just ridiculous to feel sad. All that mattered was that Dean wasn't happy here—or rather, Dean was even unhappier than Sam had guessed. Dean didn’t deserve being unhappy, not after everything he'd given. This—this whole thing wasn't worth it if Dean was that fucking miserable.

Sam said to the empty room. "I should leave. I am going to leave." He grabbed his backpack and walked out the door, down the steps, out the front doors and right past Dean.

Den watched him—Sam knew he was watching, he felt it. When he stepped off the curb to cross the street he heard, "Bring some ice-cream back."

Sam thought, you're going to be waiting a god damn long time for ice-cream, you asshole. He wiped dust out of his eyes and trudged down the street, the bag hanging like a dead weight on his shoulder.

****

That night, they split a pint of Phish Food and Sam had a job at the food market a few blocks over. Dean kept smiling at him and Sam kept blushing and wishing he'd stop.

"Did you have a nice walk—"

"You know what, shut the fuck up, eat your ice-cream, I don't want to hear it."

It pissed Sam off how Dean managed to smile even louder.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

Somehow, Sam thought everything was going to fit better after that, that Dean would see that he needed Sam around…that Dean would finally see the Sam he was now.

Nope.  


****

Sam was dragging himself up the stairs, tired, smelling of stale air and damaged produce. All he was capable of thinking about clearly was getting home, getting clean and maybe talking Dean into going out later for some Chinese and a few beers. He hit the second floor landing the very same minute that Dean was letting himself out of some woman's apartment. He was flushed a satisfied pink, and smirked over his shoulder in a theatrically leering way. She was propped up in the doorway, looking like a Guild of Seamstresses reject. she giggled when Dean winked at her.

Sam kind of wanted to rip her head off and poke Dean's eye out. Dean turned around and startled when he saw Sam. "What are you doing here?" he snapped—practically accused. Blonde hussy was no fool; she slipped back in her apartment quick as a wink.

Sam snarled, "Coming home from work and what are you doing, trying to lose your job?"

"Who's gonna know besides me and her--and now you?" Dean scowled and in general carried on way beyond what the situation called for. If anyone had a right to pout and scowl, Sam felt it was all his. Well, sort of. Okay maybe he didn’t have a right to be…fuck. Jealous, damn it. But he was, and his heart hurt too. It'd been so long that Dean had flirted or gave any of the usual signs he'd 'got lucky' that Sam had started to think…stupid thoughts. Stupid thoughts. So he sucked it up, and smiled at Dean and winked. "Eh, you're right. Go get 'er, tiger."

"'Go get 'er, tiger'? What are you, someone's inappropriate creepy grandpa? Beat it, I got work to do."

"Think you can keep it in your pants next job?" Which was totally not what Sam had planned to say, he'd meant to come out with something witty and risqué and boys talking shit together but that had come out kind of thirteen year old girl-ish.

Dean looked at him like he was crazy. "Yeah, think I can since it's old Mr. K on six…."

Sam shoved down all his stupidity, managed a smirk and said, "I don't know, he's got a great smile and killer calves…."

Dean laughed and Sam laughed too, and everything was back to their slidey version of normal again. Which didn't last long. Sam had to acknowledge he was the genius of fucking things up.  
Yeah, fucking things up, making epic fucked up choices, that was something he was really good at.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

"So, I got us invited to bar tonight."

"Yeah?" Dean's attention was mostly on the baseball game playing out on their new TV. It looked good sat on their new fake cherry wood TV stand. Dean's feet looked comfortable planted solidly on their new rug.

"Some people are getting together after work tonight and I thought you might like to come. Booze and loose women—well, some of the girls I work with seem like they might like hanging out with ugly old guys like yourself."

"Shut up. Your friends know you're pimping 'em out?" Dean asked, but when Sam turned from tossing discounted groceries into the cabinets Dean looked milder than his tone had been. He looked to be still absorbed in the game. Sam shook his head. Sometimes his brain played weird tricks on him, like when it told him Dean was watching and when he looked Dean wouldn't even be in the room.

"They're not exactly my friends, and I'm not pimping anyone. I'm just asking if you want to come with me."

"You don't have to bribe me, kid. I'd come hold your hand without you waving wenches at me." Now Dean really was looking at him, and his smile was genuine.

"You’re so…" Sam wanted to say 'disgusting and sexist in a medieval way', but it was hard to when his lips were stuck on a grin. _Hold his hand_. It was an image Sam's heart seemed to like a lot. But then, his heart always was stupid as fuck.

****

It was fun. He was having a good time, and nothing could have surprised Sam more, he was shocked, even. The people turned out to be a lot more interesting than he'd imagined people forced to care about whether all the cans on a shelf were facing with the labels out would be. There were a few who were in the same boat as he was—not temporarily ex-hunters, but possessing degrees that at the moment, weren't doing shit for them.

Life. It had everybody by the shorts.

And Dean. His brother was getting on with everyone. Seemed that he'd turned the charm-o-meter to high and was doing that thing that reeled in defenseless, unsuspecting victims, that thing that made Sam stumble around sleepless in the middle of the night, wishing he was drunk, or living far away in another country. He consoled himself with the thought that none of these people would ever get to know who Dean really was, not like he knew. He turned on his stool in time to catch Dean walking out the door with the chick who worked pharmacy.

Then again, some people would get to know Dean in ways he was never going to. Unless there really was such a thing as sex pollen, or some crazy witch would actually curse them to have....

Sam thought maybe the best thing to do here was to get seriously, fucking, pass-out drunk. It was a good plan but a few minutes into it, one of the guys from the loading dock asked him if he wanted to smoke in his car and Sam said yes and one thing led to another and he found himself being kind of manhandled all over the inside of a Civic. There really wasn't enough room for what the guy was trying to do but Sam admired his enthusiasm. Sam decided he was too drunk to continue when everything the guy did made him break out in giggles.

The guy stopped, huffed a patient breath into the pot-scented air. "So. This isn’t going to happen, is it?" he asked.

"Um…no-oo…are you pissed off?"

"Nah," the guy shrugged—grinned in a friendly way that reminded Sam a little of his brother. That grin tugged at his heart. "Maybe some other time?" the guy asked. "And some other place?"

He laughed some and patted Sam's arm. Sam felt a deep wave of alcohol-and-cannabis fueled affection sweep him. The guy, Jamar, Jamie, Jake, whatever, the guy was a real nice person, a sweetheart; he'd love to try again, partly because Jerry, Jalil, was so nice. Mostly because Sam didn’t think he had a lot of other options and he so wasn't planning on living his life like a monk. But not a slut either, not like some other people he could name. The look on Jarek's, Jabbar's--the guy's face--a kind of befuddled curiosity, made Sam realize he'd been talking out loud. Okay. Sam was about to say that he thought it was a good idea to try some other time if Jacob was still interested when the car door opened and Sam fell out onto the gravel.

"What the fuck is going on here!" Dean yelled, and reached around to the back of his waist and Sam shouted, "No Dean!" before remembering they didn’t really go strapped anymore. He jumped up to grab Dean's arm and everything slid sideways.

"Whoa—who's moving things?" he muttered and Dean cursed, caught Sam in both arms. He glared at poor Civic guy and Sam figured he'd remember his real name at some point. Jason, pretty sure that was it…meanwhile, Dean was warm and solid and just so…there. He sighed and melted against him. Warm. Nice.

"The only reason I'm not kicking your ass right now is my hands are full of idiot," Dean snarled and the guy just nodded like Sam was a blushing virgin and not a twenty-eight year old man who was responsible for himself and hadn't he told Dean he was bi at some point? Sam stood scrunching his face at the sky, trying to remember that conversation, when Dean pushed him upright and let go of him. He kept a steadying hand on Sam's arm. Sam whimpered at the loss of warmth.

"Come on, you drunk ass yeti, let's get you home. Jesus. How drunk *are* you? I mean--a guy? Sam, what's going on here?"

Sam said, I'm bi, and you're a homophobe but it came out, "Nur, gun thrup."—and Dean did an amazing kind of side-step, arm-twist thing that had Sam twirling and bending and vomiting away from them instead of all over their shoes. He had a brief second to admire Dean's grace before harking all over the edge of the gravel drive. Shit, he'd only had a few beers and some shots and smoked a little, it'd been a while but not that long—"arrrgh. Bunh-bunh—"

"God, stop trying to talk and get it done. You're not getting in my car 'til you're all barfed out."

"Dean…" tears of strain ran down Sam's face. Strain, nothing else. He slid his hands over Dean's chest, looking for some shirt to hang onto, and dropped his head on Dean's shoulder because he was so tired. He waited for a smack or for Dean to push him away but Dean kind of…un-tensed, shoved his fingers under the hair at back of Sam's neck and rubbed his knuckles at the base of his skull, the way he hadn't done since Sam was thirteen or so. It felt so good he wanted to cry.

"You poor idiot. What're you trying to do? Hunh? Is it that bad, Sammy?" he whispered.

Sam nodded. Yes. Feeling this way was that bad. Being tortured daily was that bad. It was.

Dean made soothing noises and let Sam hang off of him a wonderful long time. Of course, it had to end, and finally Dean pushed him off and shoveled him into the car.

"You're lucky, no one saw you act like a girl. Don’t worry about Handsy McDeadGuy; he's not gonna say a word." Dean scowled. "But next time, no drinking without me."

Fucking brilliant advice. Dean should have given it at the start of the evening—or not left Sam alone while he went off with some hobag. "Oh crap," he muttered to himself. He didn't mean that, she was a nice enough girl, it was just—the car rocked and bumped over the gravel parking lot and Sam clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Hey! You okay, Sam?" Dean was balling up a napkin—tossed it out the window. He caught Sam's eyes on him and shrugged. "Nothing important," he said, "relax, we'll be home soon."

Fuck…home. What was a home?

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

3

  
Dean was coming up the stairs that led to the basement and the washer and dryers. He was pushing two red-faced boys in front of him, his face contorted into a vicious scowl. "I don't give a fu—crap—you do not shove your brother into a dryer and turn it on. You coulda hurt him. Killed him. And then I'd have to clean corpse stench out of the dryer. Go home before I kick your asses." The boys bolted for the building entrance. "You tell your mom I'm coming to talk to her."

Sam shuffled the grocery bags in his arms and watched the little drama unfold. He'd seen right away the scowl was a mask for laughter and sure enough, as soon as Dean caught sight of Sam, he broke out into a huge, eye wrinkling grin. He waited to let Sam catch up with him and they walked into the dim light and cool granite smell of the lobby together.

"Little bastards," Dean laughed. "Older one had the little kid shoved in a dryer and was looking for quarters. Lucky I got there before he found any." Dean shook his head like a fond uncle. Memories, no doubt, of nearly murdering his own younger brother. Younger Brother made an enormous effort not to step on his older brother's instep.

"Yeah, 'cause brothers should never do anything like that, hunh?"

The sarcasm was totally lost on Dean. "Hey, no one told you you had to put that vacuum hose to your face. Good thing you didn't try to attach it to your—"

"Dean!"

Dean laughed. "What are you up to tonight, wanna go out? I need to get out. I spent all day snaking toilets and changing bulbs—how freaking hard is it to get on a stool and change a bulb?"

"If you're four foot tall and eighty years old like Mrs. Gardiner, real hard." Sam snorted. "You're kind of crabby lately. Maybe you need to get laid," Sam said, just like he was anyone else's brother, like he was a normal guy, who didn't live a whole dirty secret life in the privacy of his head.

"Laid…speaking of, you ever talk to Handsy again?"

"Yes, of course, I see Jerome almost every day," he said carefully, and shoved a grocery bag in Dean's arms. "Salad and bread's in that one, be careful. Not like you mean though. He's a nice enough guy, bad habits aside." Dean snorted, but Sam ignored him. "Candy asked me out with a few people tonight. She's cute."

Dean unlocked the door and set his bag on the kitchen counter, Sam plopped his bag next to it.

"She? You've gone back to girls? I thought—"

"Bi, dude. That's what it means. She's nice; she's just a nice person to talk to. She listens just as well as she speaks. Kind of rare that," he said as pointedly as he could.

Dean was quiet as he helped put the groceries away. Fidgeted a bit before turning to Sam. "You know it doesn’t matter to me, right? You're my brother, nothing could change that."

Sam leaned against the counter and smiled through an embarrassing wave of _awww_ and _love_. "I know that dude; you proved it over and over, okay? And. Thanks. For *everything*."

Dean shrugged and waved it off. "Whatever, bitch." He started to walk away, and then came back. "Say, Sam?"

Sam looked up, and froze. Dean was red-faced, his eyes darting everywhere but where Sam was. Sam's heart tripped a beat. Dean was about to say something that wasn't going to make him happy, much. "…yeah?"

"I." Dean stopped, bit his lip, tried again. "Listen. I." He blew out a sharp breath and blurted, "I hadsexwithaguy. Once. So, I get it, sort of."

Sam dropped the bag of oranges he'd been holding, oranges bounced and rolled all over the kitchen, under the table, over their feet. "Hunh? You did what now?"

"It was while you were at college," Dean said, like that explained it all.

"Dean," Sam said mildly, giving no indication that part of his brain had skipped the tracks and was dealing with unreasonable jealousy, anger, hurt, and curiosity. "Dean…that stuff about experimenting in college? Doesn't extend to siblings *not* in college."

"I just wanted you to know that, you know. It's okay to talk to me. All right?"

"All right. Thanks. Um. So, top or bottom?"

"What? *What*? Fuck you, I'm trying to—to—talk to you, and you're making fun of me?"

"No, dude, wait, Dean, come back—*shit*." Any other time Dean would be glad—it was what Dean did all the time, deflect a moment by joking. Wasn't like he really wanted to know.

A sharp, electric jolt shot through him, he almost gasped aloud. The picture of his brother with his dick down someone's throat made his head swim…his hands planted on some anonymous ass, plunging in and out. Sam blinked rapidly, dropped to his knees to pick up the oranges. He was still on his knees when Dean sauntered in as causally as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb that wiped out the last of Sam's fragile control over the worst of his imagination.

"Going out for a minute, I'll be back before it's time to go. Don’t cook."

Sam looked up at him, his gaze glancing from Dean's boots to his knees to his belt buckle, before settling on his chin. "Oh-okay," he said. He was still on his knees for a little bit after Dean left, his dick pulsing uncomfortably in his pants. "Oh fuuuuck," he groaned. Life was…full of bad suck.

****

Dean came in a few hours later, a little smile on his lips. His eyes were that cloudy, grey-green they got when he was drunk, and Sam kind of hated that…Dean getting drunk felt like he was hiding from him. Sam stared hard at the TV—he'd been watching some giant machines, mostly because he was a little drunk too, and couldn’t be bothered to pick up the remote from where he'd dropped it. Dean dropped down on the end of the couch and let out a huge gusty sigh.

"So, how was the date?" he asked. "Did you score?"

Sam closed his eyes and sighed. Okay, they _were_ going to play it this way. "She's a nice girl. We had drinks. We might get together again. I'll probably go out with Jerome, too, if he wants." Sam shrugged. Dean just kept staring at him, kind of bleary around the edges, with an edge of judging. "What?"

"Nothing. Just…when did you get to be such a social butterfly."

"So, I take a page out of your book and I'm some kind of man-whore all of a sudden?"

"Well, isn't that what you think of me?"

"Dean—" No. Sometimes. Not a whore, just, too friendly. By far, damn it. Fucker. A guy. And he never told him, fuck Dean never told him anything. "I wanna know about that guy. And why you don’t now. You don't right?" Sam said past a stupid flare of jealousy.

"God, Sam did you learn how to kill a buzz dead at Stanford? Bet you were popular," he muttered. "No…it was just that once, like I said."

Sam got up off the couh. "Yeah, okay. Imma get another beer, you wan' one?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, if I gotta talk about this shit, I need to be drunker than this." Sam jerked open the fridge door, he yanked a couple of bottles out. He had the bottles open and was coming around the edge of the couch when Dean looked up at him and Sam froze. His eyes….

Dean started talking, eyes sliding off Sam and fixing on the TV. "You know what freaked me out after? I liked it. I liked it so much that. That I was afraid I'd never, you know, stop wanting it. I just figured it was easier not to, you know, with Dad and all. So." He shrugged. "Met him at a bar. He was tall, and had this crazy hair all in his face and shit. Did I tell you he was a hunter? I asked him how he saw with all that stupid hair and he pulled out this crazy headband and. He grinned, right to his back teeth and he reminded me of you and." Dean took a long swallow of his beer and Sam faked that he did too. "So, I was missing you, god, Sammy like you wouldn't believe and this guy just kept talking and making me laugh and drink, and the next thing I knew I was in his truck, and he was bent over me and touching me places no one ever had before and it felt—amazing. He made me come—" Dean stopped and coughed, wiped his mouth and set his bottle down firmly on the end table. "Anyway. It was the one time only."

"You ever see him again?" Sam asked, lifted his bottle and swallowed for real this time—he didn’t want to know Dean had kept in touch with the guy, maybe still talked to him. Hunters were a small, inbred community. It was reasonable to think that they kept in contact, even guys….

"No. he's dead," Dean said, in a way that let Sam know that conversation was over. He managed to swallow down the "I'm sorry," that kind of automatically formed in his mouth. There was no way he could pretend to be sincere, that he cared about this faceless stranger who reminded his brother of him. Who his brother had had sex with.

Dean jerked to his feet and slammed the empty bottle down on the coffee table. "I'm beat Sam. Hit the lights?"

Sam grunted agreement and switched off the TV, headed for the lamps. He gathered up the bottles, and set them in the sink, he brought the laundry hamper out of the bathroom and left it by the apartment door. Swept the kitchen floor, wiped down the counters…he didn't go to bed until he heard the soft sound of his brother snoring—he always snored when he'd been drinking. Sam took himself off to bed too, and tried to clear his mind. He was about to drift off when the whole evening suddenly replayed, and crashed to a stop on _"he reminded me of you"._

Dean had slept with a guy who reminded him of Sam. He'd said it out loud. He fucked a guy who reminded him of….Sam fell asleep, repeating that over and over and wondering. Stupid thoughts, maybe, but he slept sounder that night than any night in a long, long, time.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when you survive a thing you never expected to

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dhfpw/)

"Hey Sam, I know you want to take a break from hunting but—"

"Where? What's happening? Do I need to take time off, I can probably get a few days off like, over the weekend or—"

"Don't go getting your pigtails in a knot, Cinderella," Dean smirked. "Knew you were getting bored."

"It's not that. It's just between studying and working, I need a break."

Dean nodded. "Oh, yeah. I told Damien I'd need a couple of days for my 'other' work." He shivered and made a face. "Dude, I think he thinks I'm some kind of…sorcerer or something. 'screepy."

Sam shook his head. Civilians. "So, what are we after?"

"Bobby sent an e-mail." He shrugged at Sam's look of surprise. "He discovered the internet? Anyway, it was more of a general call for hunters in the area than for us specifically; he knows we're on a break."

"Uh-hunh. He just happened to send info about a job to us, too."

Dean grinned. "Yeah. Anyway, it’s a real basic one, a piece of pie--easy."

"Cake. And you know better than to say something's easy where the Universe can hear you, dude. It's like pasting a kick me sign on yourself."

"Unbunch, Priscilla." Dean rolled his eyes. "We're heading to Maine, there's a water baby making trouble there, or so Bobby says. Could be something else, but considering the area, and the M.O., water baby's his first choice."

"Water baby? Have you heard of that before? How the hell do you kill that?"

"Dad had some info in his journal—not personal experience, though. Seems you don't kill it. You get it to leave--you make its home unlivable and it disappears. Dad thought maybe they slip in here from another dimension--hey," he said to Sam's startled laugh. "Dad's theory, not mine." He dug around in a bag and pulled out two fat, red candles, and a plastic sandwich bag of bones. He shook the bag. "Chicken bones. Burn them on the bank, light the candles and tell it to leave and not come back."

"You're kidding. That's all there is to it?"

"Everything gotta be blood and screaming for you--" Dean choked to a stop, his smile faded, as the color leached from his face.

"Dean…"

"Anyway, it'll be a nice drive, you'll like it." His brother's eyes were begging him not to comment and Sam went with it.

"When you put it like that," he managed a small smile, and Dean gave him a grateful kind of grimace back.  


****

  
Two days later, they were stretched on the sandy floor of a shallow cave, near the rocky shore of an inlet. Cliffs rose up on either side, forming the shallow walls and the high, slanted, roof of the cave they crouched in. Sam was bleeding and panting, hunched over their duffle and glaring at Dean like he'd throw him into the lake if he could. Between his teeth he ground out, "When we get outta here, I'm going to break your fucking nose."

"Dude, my nose is already broken." He wiped a palm full of blood off his upper lip and glared at Sam like it was his fault. "Fucking horned snake motherfucker. Water baby, my ass. I mean, when the man said 'water baby' I'm thinking _baby_ , right? Not the god damn Loch Ness monster with a really shitty attitude. Damn."

Sam nodded, his breath still coming rough. "So. We try again?"

"Yeah, this thing will keep on taking people into the water if not. Matches?"

He tossed Dean a pack of matches, guaranteed to light wet or dry, and searched his pockets. Found the plastic bag full of salt and iron shells. "Okay—want me to take shotgun?" He dug the Mossberg out of the duffle, but Dean shook his head, held his hand out for it as he staggered to his feet.

"Nah, gimme--you're better than I am with the chanting thing. You know me, ready to hold down the fort, but you're the one who talks all purty. Get rid of this thing, I'll keep it occupied."

He stared at Dean. "I don’t feel good about you going up against this thing alone." _We're out of practice_ he kept to himself.

"Well, I'm not alone. I got you and you've got my back. Light those candles and start chanting, I got a big watery bitch to irritate the hell out of."

Dean scrambled over the rocks, went farther onto the shore and started throwing rocks into the dark water. Sam flopped a few large, flat rocks together, set the two candles up, frowning at the oddly greasy feel of them. There was something about them that made his palms feel dirty…he felt a familiar itch under the back of his skull, and wiped his hands on his jeans, hard.

He lit the candles, and when the wicks had sputtered their last and finally held a flame, he piled up the chicken bones between them. He had no idea what the bones were meant to represent. They were dry and hollow, rough to the touch. They smelled faintly of fried chicken and were totally unremarkable…he shrugged and doused them with lighter fluid, and listened to Dean curse and throw stones at the water.

" _Fuck!_ "

Sam's head whipped around, and there was Dean running up the dangerously rocky shore, yelling for Sam to start chanting right fucking now. Keeping pace with him, in the water, was a long dark shape that wove sinuously through the waves. Its long skull whipped back and forth and even over the sound of crashing water and Dean's panicked shouts, he could hear it hissing.

Sam quickly lit a twist of paper, dropped it onto the bones and the lighter fluid flared up, the dry bones caught. He thanked god silently and started chanting, loudly, clearly and quickly. "Back, give this water back. Give the meat back. Give the bones back. Go back. Go home. Go now." He repeated those words; he was supposed to say them until the 'water baby' listened. He chanted, and watched the monster slither out of the water and across the rocks, its fins working like legs to pull it after Dean—a whole lot faster than it seemed it should be capable of. Sam licked his dry lips, pressed his hand over his hammering heart and kept one eye on the beach and his frantically dodging brother, and chanted without stop. It felt wrong, the worst kind of wrong to not run down the beach and help Dean....

He startled but kept chanting when he heard a shotgun blast, much closer than he expected. Dean was still running but now he was running away from the cave, shouting and waving his arms and drawing the water baby away from Sam, and Sam couldn't stop chanting. He desperately hoped Dean knew what he was doing.

Sam's voice was getting rough, and the smoke from the greasy candles and the smoldering bones irritated his throat even more. His eyes were streaming when Dean came dashing into the cave, whooping.

"Dude, it lit up all over like a fucking Christmas tree and was gone! We were half way down the beach and it had an eye on me, I swear it licked its lips—it had lips dude, like Angelina lips--so fuckin' creepy--"

Sam hacked and coughed, and croaked, "Then we're done?"

"Kinda." Dean shrugged, and said, "Well, now we gotta find the bones of its victims and burn them too…."

"What—oh my god, I swear when we get back to the hotel, I'm going to drug you and cut your kidneys out and sell them."

Dean looked thoughtful for a moment, and said, "And then can we buy a pony?"

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

They drove down the coast because it really was a nice drive; the sun was high in a bright sapphire sky, the crisp ocean breeze dashed long streamers of vanilla white clouds across the blue. Sam snuck little looks at an oblivious Dean as they drove. Dean looked good, really good. Sam cataloged all the changes in his brother. He was tan, his freckles looked healthy now, and not like dark spatters against a sallow, grey canvas. The dark shadows were gone from under his eyes, the lines in the corners deeper, but they came from smiling and not that terrible frozen glare Sam had gotten used to seeing. He looked…whole. He looked like Dean again.

"Hey. You're thinking too hard and that's never good. What's up? Did we miss something?"

"No, no, I was thinking…" _that I'm tired of being alone_ "that I'm kind of hungry. Wanna stop?"

"Fuck, yeah. Best idea you've had since…" Dean made a big show out of trying to remember, and Sam elbowed him. Asshole.  


****

  
They took a break on the way back, stopped at a little rundown looking clam shack set back from the road. The original red and navy paint had faded to a sketchy pink and baby blue, the hand painted sign hung cock-eyed on the wall. An old fashioned screen door slapped on its spring hinge as customers came and went--was probably doing nothing to keep flying things out. Dean pulled the car into the dirt parking lot and smiled and Sam looked at him like he was crazy.

"Really? We're going for salmonella on the half-shell?"

"Nah, pretty sure the sign says 'Bud's Oyster and Beer'. Don't you know the less tarted up a place is, the better the food? Live a little, kiddo."

They got paper trays piled high with hot fried oysters and fries, a bottle each of Miller. Ignoring the slight chill in the air, they sat outside at one of the picnic tables at the rear of the lot, and stuffed themselves silly. Dean was grinning from ear to ear, the sun made his eyes blaze and the slight wind did its best to ruffle his hair. He laughed a lot and Sam sucked up the sound of it, learning it all over again.

"Told you it was gonna be good," Dean crowed at Sam, who was busy licking grease and crumbs from his fingers. All he could do was nod. Fried oysters had always struck him as something disgusting covered with breading and made more disgusting by coating it in oil, but this…he might have to rethink his stance on fried foods. Fried oysters, anyway. Dean winked and chewed, and Sam felt like…this was what it was all about. Here it was, this was his reward. His Dean.

"What? I got something?" Dean asked, wiped at his face and threw the napkin at Sam, chugged half his beer, and turned to Sam. "Hey, Sammy—" he burped out 'how are you?' and waggled his eyebrows.

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're, what—thirty-two going on twelve?"

Dean snickered. "You know you love it."

Sam handed Dean the rest of his fries. "Um. Something like that."

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

  
"One more," Dean said "One more, and then we'll go."

Sam sighed, licked the rim of his glass and peered at his brother. "Yeah, one more." Which really meant a few more before Dean found a hookup, and used to mean, when they moved day by day, leaving Sam to walk alone back to their room—or making Sam sleep in the backseat of the car. He scowled. Not fun memories.

He looked around the bar. Two could play that game. Shit, he should beat Dean to the punch, let god's gift to women see how he liked trying to pretzel his ass into the backseat to sleep. He caught the eye of a long, lean, girl, back against the bar, hips titled out to the room and a look on her face that was open, appraising. She met Sam's eyes and smiled. He stood, and was about to head her way when Dean grabbed his arm.

"Come outside with me, I feel like a smoke."

"What? No you don't," Sam said. "You don't smoke, remember?"

"Just because you believe a thing, don’t make it true for the rest of the world," Dean smirked. "Come on." He handed Sam his beer and grabbed his sleeve, and almost pushed him out the door. "You can thank me later, dude," he laughed and Sam tried to ferret out what he meant.

"Thank you? Dude—you cock-blocked me," Sam groused, stumbling a little in the dark.

His brother shook his head. "Nah, I saved you. She was trouble. She came in with that guy who was about ten feet wide—you didn’t see him?"

Sam blinked and looked around him—Dean had shoved him all the way to the back of the lot where his Precious was parked safely away from thugs and other car doors. He pushed Sam against it before he flopped next to Sam, looked him up and down, and snickered. "Maybe I should have let you try and talk to her—"

Sam felt a little flare of hurt. Dean wanted to see him get his ass kicked, did he? Well, sure he would after all—

"Man, it would have been kind of worth it to see that guy's face when you kicked his ass all over the bar. He looked like he could have stood taking down a peg or two. And you would have been the one to do it." Dean gave him a look, so proud, so full of everything Sam hadn’t seen since he was a teen. It made his head swim, and made him blush hot—felt it rise in his face, and roll right down to his chest…he ducked his head and swigged beer like it was a lifeline. Dean laughed and rolled over the fender, ended up in front of Sam. Between his legs, actually. Sam swallowed, froze. "You're drunk."

"Oh man, yeah. So drunk." He sounded proud of it. He giggled and dropped his head onto Sam's chest. "Man, I'm so drunk. It was a great job, right?"

"Oh yeah," Sam said. "You almost got eaten by a giant cross between Shamu and a snake, I almost choked to death…yeah, it was great." He laughed and reached up, rubbed the back of Dean's neck, up through his hair, rubbed against the back of his skull until Dean just sighed and his body loosened. "It was fun."

"And we won," Dean mumbled hot and damp against Sam's chest, the warmth spreading. "We won, and that's all that counts right. Do over; clean slate…"

Sam got it. Dean wasn't talking about the job any more; he was somewhere else, some other time. "It's all over, Sam, all that bad stuff. You know I forgave you right? Do you forgive me?"

"For what Dean, there's nothing to forgive. You were right and I was wrong and—"

Dean shook his head violently, rucking up Sam's t-shirt. "No. Not right or wrong. We both wanted the same thing. For it to end well. We want the same thing, right," he said and lifted his head, speared Sam with a hot glare and Sam felt himself harden in his jeans. He saw the moment Dean felt it and panicked, waited for his brother to fling himself away, but he didn't…his eyes dropped shut and he gave a tentative press back with his hips, and a slight move that barely rubbed their dicks together. He moaned, but Sam almost missed it, making his own noise. And Dean reached up and pulled his head down and brushed his mouth over Sam's and Sam shook, his hips jerked up towards Dean. "God, god, god….I think, I think…"

"Sammy. Shhh."

It was everything he thought it would be. More. Sam's mouth watered, Dean was delicious, just like he knew he would be. Ripe, like summer peaches, sweet and tart at once. Hot inside, juicy wet. He sucked Dean's tongue like it was candy, whimpering because he wanted something more in his mouth, wanted it now. He touched all of Dean that he could, slid his hands up under Dean's t-shirt, swept his thumbs over hard nipples and marveled, how soft his body hair was, how warm his skin. How hot and hard his dick was, pressed against Sam's leg. "Dean, let me suck you," he moaned. "Please."

Dean blinked, and stepped back, red slick lips framing a smile wide as ocean. His hand slid across Sam's chest, over his heart. Pressed there, a hot weight, before sliding down to Sam's waist, curling around his hip, and then off. "Damn Sammy, I'm really fuckin' drunk, dude. Take me back to the room?" He grinned and grinned and weaved on his feet. By the time they got back to their motel, Dean was out on his feet, and Sam had to wrestle him into the bed, pry off his shoes. Dean rolled to his side and threw an arm over his face, mouth open, breath groaning in and out of him. Sam watched him for a while, his heart thumping, breath catching in his throat. This was going to be bad. He knew Dean…with any luck, he'd pretend to forget. It hurt. But better this hurt than nothing at all.

  
Sam woke up with the feeling that he'd finally broken his brother and himself for good. He excepted to be in the room alone, accepted that he would be, maybe a note on the bed, Dean's bags gone—but he was in the next bed, curled like a snail and breathing deep and steady. The relief Sam felt was overwhelming, and swallowed in the next breath by the knowledge that they were still broken. Dean was going to blame him for everything, or act like there'd been nothing—

Dean woke, stretched, caught Sam looking and smiled. "Morning, Sas. You're up—that means you brought me coffee, right?"

Sam was startled into laughter. "Not yet."

Dean flopped to his face. He stretched out one arm and snapped his fingers imperiously. "Go bitch, bring me caffeine. Now."

It was…okay? They were going to be okay? Sam took the first real breath he'd managed since waking.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

3

  
It was okay. At least it didn't get worse. In a way, it got better. Then again, it went pretty much as he thought it would.

Dean was more relaxed. More open. It was just. It seemed. He…okay, Dean acted like it'd never happened. Like he forgot that whole…kiss, thing, whatever it was. Had been. _Quelle surprise. Huge, honking enormous, surprise._

How did Dean just shut things out like that? Sam couldn't imagine how he did it. Or maybe he could…Dean was good at stuffing things in little brain boxes and nailing the lids shut, no matter how much it hurt to do. In fact, Sam thought, as he made an eye-catching display of canned diced tomatoes and chilies on an end-cap, in some ways, Dean was handling it like a rock star, while he was flailing on the edge of some kind of psychic cliff, staring down into pointy stuff at the bottom…Dean though; he was bigger and brighter than before The Kiss. Like, content and as happy as he thought Sam would be for settling in one place for a while….

Unless he was faking it.

Sam huffed and stood, his knees cracking as he did. He shoved fists on his hips and imagined the cans exploding, aluminum shrapnel and diced tomato bits everywhere and Dean dancing naked in the middle of it….

Dean was definitely faking it.

Sam started guiltily as the cans wobbled, clattering slightly against the metal shelves. Must be heavy traffic going by…just in case, he tried thinking happy thoughts to calm himself.

Such as: Dean _smiled_. A lot. At him. Every time Dean saw him, he got this smile that said, 'I hit the lottery', or something. He joked more, touched Sam all the time now. It was like waking up in the middle of a great dream and finding it was your real life, a world where Dean finally kicked off any last traces of the shackles their life had snapped on him. He was more open now, less freaked about showing he cared, and okay, maybe they _hadn't_ kissed again like they had that night but….

Sam would just have to be okay with that. Besides, a happy, smiling, caring Dean was more than enough for Sam. He could be content with that. He seriously could be.

The diced tomatoes and chilies mocked him with their silent judgment. But it _was_ true. Jerking off every now and then and accidentally thinking of your brother didn't mean anything, everybod—fuck. Yeah--no.

Sam sighed and shoved the cans back in line. It wasn't an easy thing to admit, that kissing your own brother did it for you like no one else. It was a weird, uncomfortably twisty concept for _Sam_ let alone Dean, who in a weird way, could be kind of rigid morally. His particular concept of morals anyway.

And that, that was okay too. Because Sam could see it in Dean's eyes—he could see it in those thousand watt smiles and. Well. Dean looked at him like he _wanted_ more, he just needed time to come to terms with that. This, Sam was fine with. Hell, there was time enough for Sam to coax Dean out of his set ways and into seeing just how much they needed everything about each other. Plenty of time. Loads of time and if there was one thing Sam was, it was patient.

No. Seriously.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

At the end of the week, Dean threw some stuff in a backpack and took a run out to a friend of Bobby's to pick something up for him. "Gone for two, three days tops, Sam." It was too sudden for Sam to clear his schedule so he had to let Dean go by himself and besides, not like it was a hunt or anything. So Sam just nodded, said okay, stood at the end of the drive waving good-bye to Dean—using all his fingers even if he really wanted not to.

Dean was gone longer than three days. Fucking liar.

Completely unrelated to that, Sam gave notice at the market. It was just, the market and he had come to a parting of the ways—irreconcilable differences. One more fucking case of green beans to price and he was going Cold Blood on everyone. First on his list, the old woman from the sixth floor, the one who demanded Sam drop everything and shop for her--the one with the illegal cats and that _smell_ , peppermint and dusty old books and wet newspaper and _lavender_. The one who called Dean twelve times a day and complained like it was her job and Dean never once lost his temper with her or reported the _cats_ , the awful, reeking, mangy, slatty-ribbed, evil-eyed _cats_ who stared at him like he was some kind of abomination….

Sam took a deep breath and searched for his calm place and cursed when he realized his calm place was in fucking South Dakota somewhere, playing Indiana Jones….

Last day on the job, he tossed his apron on the break room table and gathered the cards that were shoved into his locker; they ranged from _great working with you_ to _thanks a fucking lot for quitting douche bag who's going to take my Saturday shift now_. It warmed his heart. He went out for good-bye drinks with the crew and somehow ended up in an abandoned drive-in, just Jerome and him, draped over the hood of Jerome's Civic and being jerked off agonizingly slow, while Jerome whispered what sounded like snatches of poetry in his ear. Sam groaned and shuddered and still managed to make a quick mental note to bring Dean and his EMF o'meter to check it out--there was something off about the place. He was squinting at the shattered remnants of the screen; almost certain he saw movement and light flit across it when orgasm snuck up on him. Jerome let out a little grunt of satisfaction in a job well done while Sam shot thick and hot right up under his tee-shirt and all over his stomach before collapsing in a panting heap against the warm metal.

"Call me sometimes," Jerome said, kind of surreptitiously wiping his hand on Sam's waist. "I really liked working with you, man."

Sam nodded, and pulled Jerome close, hands sliding around his waist. "Before we go…."

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

He came in late; Dean was finally back, and sitting on the couch like he'd never left, staring at what looked like an infomercial. He looked up at Sam with a frown—the first time he hadn't greeted Sam with a smile in a while.

"Hey, you're back," Sam said, feeling happy and loose and really pleased to see his brother, his beautiful, beautiful brother, all ocean eyes and full pink mouth and funny little snort and the cute way he pressed his tongue against his teeth when he smiled sometimes and….

"Yeah. Called your phone. A _couple_ of times. _Sam._ "

 _*Crabby freckle-faced bitch*_ …"It was off."

"I _know_. You can't do that Sam, you never know—"

"Know what Dean? Who's going to hurt me? We won, it's all over, remember?"

"People, Sam. They can hurt you just as hard as monsters."

"Fuck Dean…you think I don't know that?" Sam scrubbed hands over his face, the warm, floaty feeling gone. He tried to settle but he felt too wide, too thin, too ready to break. He headed to the bathroom, uncomfortably aware of dried come on his skin, and Dean's wrinkled nose. Whatever.

****

The bookstore was a nice change from the market. He didn't smell like rotten lettuce and stale chicken blood anymore. Now he smelt like dust and old cardboard. Stocking the shelves was a zen way to spend the day. His manager was an asshole, but didn't impact on his life much—and Dean came to pick him up after work every day. If he let his coworkers think Dean was his boyfriend well…it always had been a common assumption and he only slightly encouraged it to avoid the inevitable awkward fumbling towards questions of availability. Besides, Dean kind of fed into it and it left Sam wondering….

Sam jerked hard to the sound of a dry cough behind him, just managing not to bounce his skull of the shelf edge in front of him. It was the kind of attention grabbing thing that people never really did outside of a book. There should be no way that Sam could tell the cough was dry and ironic but he could and it pissed him off. "Yes?" He tried not to hiss, and turned to face whatever douche thought he was being amusing.

Oz was smiling down at him.

Oz was…not Sam's arch nemesis, not only because that would be ridiculous, but also because Oz didn't seem to know. Oz was supposed to be some kind of assistant/helper/apprentice to Dean. What Dean called him was 'minion'. Sam didn't think it was funny but Dean seemed to think it was hilarious and said it way too much and even Oz called himself that. Asshole.

Sam struggled not to glare at the short, oh so short, man gazing at him. Oz, with his ridiculous spiky red hair, bracelets up and down his arms, tattoos and piercings and—stuff all over. He was leaning in a studied unselfconscious little slouch against the shelf, little hands shoved in his pockets, little shoulders curved inwards and a little half smile on his stupid little face, trying to look inoffensive but there was something about the guy that put Sam's teeth on edge—like licking pennies or chewing on tinfoil. The guy just made him…uncomfortable. For his part, Oz gave him a confused once over and his smile curled in on itself and died.

Sam refused to care. "Yeah? I mean, can I help you?"

"Um. Looking. For…" One thin shoulder hitched upwards and down again. "A book."

Oz took laconic to new levels. It just made Sam want to smack him…."I might need more info than that."

Oz's eyes crinkled at the corner in a way that reminded Sam of Dean... "Your brother did say you were a pretty funny dude."

"Yeah…." Sam shrugged. "So. What is that you're looking for—exactly?"

  
Eventually, Sam came away from the eastern philosophy section with a deeper appreciation of Oz's intelligence--and weirdness.

He still hated him, and he still made his skin crawl, and he still needed to keep his little bitty body out of Dean's personal space.

****

"Where you going?"

"I'm going for a run—I'm getting out of shape." Sam knelt in front of the door; head tilted forward, hiding behind the curtain of his hair. It'd worked when he was fifteen and wanted to kill Dean—it worked just as well at twenty-eight. He laced his sneakers carefully and tied them up. He glared at the toes of his outlet Adidas, pissed off and knowing, but not really knowing, why. "So how is it Damien is going to let you off for two weeks? What do you have on him, Dean?"

A shock, a sudden freezing thought, made his nerves fire unpleasantly. What was Damien to Dean? Sam shook his head hard—a totally stupid thought. Damien was some fat, greasy, old guy in a brown pinstriped suit, holed up in a real estate office somewhere, busy being a slumlord. Probably.

"Gah—don’t be stupid, Sam. Damien just--he knows the business. He gets it. He knows it's important."

Sam looked up into Dean's face, met with Dean's angry and disapproving eyes. They were bright and shining with a light that was really kind of scary, as scary as the knife-thin line of his lips. How it was possible for lips that were normally so invitingly kissable to look so, so…completely deadly, was beyond Sam. At the moment the razor line of Dean's lips said, 'I'll kill you, for free.'

Fine. Sam figured he might was well go for broke. "Okay, okay, but why you? You said weren't gonna do anything dangerous, just runs for Bobby—books and shit. And now look at you--and what about _me_? Why won’t you take me? I should be—should be at your back, not hiding out in this apartment."

Dean threw his arms up in the air like the drama queen he was and shouted, "Sammy, I told you, I'm not dumping you. This job is…it's a different kind of dangerous." His voice dropped and he did that thing with his eyes and mouth that probably influenced weaker people than him, and said quietly, like he didn't want to hear himself saying it, let alone Sam, "It's better for you if you don’t go."

And that right there—sent Sam into a deep, burning rage. Typical…Dean was never ever going to forget it—forgive it. He could live the rest of his life and that fucking god-awful mistake was going to be the only thing that Dean measured him by. "It's demons, isn't it? You don't trust me. You know what, fuck you."

"That's not—shit, I trust you, I just don’t want you to hurt, oh my god, it that so fucking wrong? That I care about you and don’t want you to—to hurt more than you do now? Besides, I had to get two guys to take your place—two guys. And neither of them will ever be as good as you but I need to know you’re okay. I need you to be as close to fine as you can be. Please. Sammy…"

And just like that Dean trapped him in a corner. Why the hell did Dean always act like he was wrapped around Sam's little finger when it was so the opposite? "Okay, all aright, god, I'm going to vomit pixie dust in a minute, you freakin' girl."

"Good, I couldn't go through that crap one more time without barfing up unicorn shit myself. Bitch."

Sam stood and palmed the back of Dean's neck, drew him in for a kiss on the cheek. "It goes without saying you're a jerk," he said and let himself out of the apartment, got halfway to the elevator before hitting the wall of _what the fuck did I just do?_ "Shit…shit."

Sam bit his lip and cast a look back at the apartment. The door was closed and he wondered what was going on behind that closed door. Damn it. He meant to not freak Dean out…maybe he wasn't freaked out? Maybe he was cool with it; it was just a kiss on the cheek. A soft, dry little peck—filled with longing and please fuck me, the kind of peck that screamed I want you, oh god, oh god--Dean would deal better with Sam pulling his dick out and jerking him off instead of something like that kiss, shit. Fuck. Sam left off waiting for the elevator to wheeze its way to the floor and dashed down the stairs. The thing to do here was run until he passed out, and hopefully he'd be picked up by the cops, labeled homeless, driven to the edge of town and kicked out never to be seen again…or best case scenario, hit by a car and killed.

The thought kind of cheered Sam up as he headed to the park at a run.

* * * * * * 

An hour, maybe more on the run, and Sam admitted maybe he was huffing a bit—not at all gasping like a beached orca, certainly not sopping wet like he'd run through a sprinkler or a tsunami. He eased from a run into a slow trot around the jogging path, weaving in and out of the trees and kind of reveling in being able to run at night in darkness and be perfectly safe—or at least safe in the way a Hunter saw it. The neighborhood was a good one—few unexplained gunshots, no drive-bys, no blood-curdling screams in the middle of the night, mostly just regular old shouting and cursing and yelling out the odd death threat. It was one of the best places they'd ever stayed. It meant Sam could run comfortably at night and not have someone challenge him because of his size, or try and rob him because of his appearance of relative wealth. Though a nice little clip holster added to one's peace of mind….

He was slowed to almost a walk now, nodding familiarly to the night time denizens of the park—not really all that terribly different to the day time denizens—maybe fewer baby carriages. His slow limp-trot took him past an almost hidden spot in the trees; he could see a small parking lot bordering a partly demolished playground peeked out of a gap in the bushes. More importantly he could see their car parked there and Dean leaning against the trunk, legs spread wide, lips wide in a goofy grin, the kind of grin that said he was fucked up. A little drunk, a little stoned, and not alone. "So, lasagna. 'slike…the world's perfect food. Only the most _perfect_ perfect food is cheeseburgers. Cause you got protein and calcium and, and, leafy stuff and red stuff—tomatoes. And if you're a freak, pickles, but we won't talk about that…"

"No, no, you're right, pickles are an abomination and an insult to good food—kind of like anchovies."

"See, see? You get me, minion, that why I like you. Where was I—right. Lasagna. It's like a cheeseburger with just the real good parts and with noodles instead of bread. Yeah. It's good."

"Cats like it."

"Oz. Dude. Do you want me to, like--kill you?"

"Just sayin…."

Sam listened to their exchange—or Dean's drunken ramblings about food--with his teeth grinding together and an electric buzz coming up out of his chest and lodging in his throat. It was stupid—so Dean had a friend, so what? Didn’t he deserve a friend?

There was a weird nano-second in which he thought he could smell Oz, that he could feel Oz like prickly fur over all of his skin, even underneath his skin. That faded, at almost the same moment oz whipped his head in Sam's direction and Sam swore Oz could see him, even in the dark shadows cast by the bushes, under the screen of branches Sam found himself crouching in. Oz looked left and right, and his lip curled away from his perfect little blunt white teeth, and he sniffed—hard. Looked concerned, alarmed, thoughtful, and finally, amused, and that was the expression Sam wanted to kill him for. The branches all around him shivered and dropped leaves like rain, but that might have been because of the little breeze that suddenly popped up, for which by the way Sam was extremely grateful because at twelve at night, it was still hot and stuffy outside.

The wind blew hard enough to kick up little dust clouds at Sam's feet when he noticed that Dean was pretty much splayed out over the trunk, legs wide, his thumbs tucked in his pocket, his curled fingers framing his hard dick. Sam could see the line of his dick pointing towards his hip, trapped there in the confines of his jeans. Oz stepped closer, curled himself around Dean and Sam heard his brother make a pleased little noise--heard a growl in the distance. Realized a beat later it was coming from himself.

Oz took a few steps away from Dean and held up his hand. Car keys glinted in the full moonlight and he jingled them.

Okay, so Sam was not in the least bit embarrassed as he stepped out of the bushes to take the keys. He did not thank Oz for taking them or for helping him manhandle an uncooperative Dean into the car and certainly did not thank him for getting his brother high and horny. For rubbing against him like a mother fucking cat while picking his damn pocket.

What really got under his skin was that Oz was creepy as hell and not in the slightest a regular human. Sam couldn't see how it was that Dean couldn't see it, Dean, who was the best hunter Sam knew….

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

 _"Stop worrying about Oz, you freak."_ >

Sam had to hold the phone away from his ear. It still rang a little. He bit his lip, eyed the ceiling and let the buzz of Dean's voice wash over him. This was bad. Just when and _how_ the hell did Dean cobble up this 'live and let live' attitude? Why wasn't he pumping silver bullets into his minion? Why was Sam so pissed that Dean was willing to believe that Oz had this thing (he was almost one hundred per cent certain it was a _thing_ ) under control when they knew that those kinds of fucking unlucky bastards just couldn't? why, because Oz was cool, cause he had good dope? Because Dean wanted to fuck him?

Sam hung up and hurried back to the rear of the shop. Whatever. What had he expected? He knew that Dean could be weird—surprising—scary sometimes--when he was drunk. It was just…it'd seemed so…different. Nice. Sam worried at his lip until it was raw and tasted of copper. His pulse beat in the tender spot, it was hot under his tongue and it sent a rush of heat to his dick, because it was almost the same taste as Dean's mouth and the same kind of heat.

"God fucking damn it!" Sam slapped the heel of his hand into his forehead. Delusional. That was the word. He was fucking on the edge of bugfuckcrazy. His eyes burned as he glared into the distance, wishing he had an ounce of control over his stupid heart, while behind him one of the cardboard boxes shuddered and started to unravel, spilling out its books ….

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

  
"Sammy…Sammy, come on...Sam, you know you like it. You do."

Sam held his head back out of Dean's reach and fit his palm over Dean's face. His lips were warm, a little slack, kind of damp—Sam shoved hard as he could and felt a sick flash of satisfaction when Dean went flying. Crumbled into a heap next to Sam's bed with a muffled curse. "Get out, Dean."

"But…but…Sam. Right? You."

"GET OUT." Tequila made Dean's pitifully few brain cells fire even slower than normal, Sam knew, but even that had to get through the alcoholic daze he was floating in. "Get out means get out, asshole. Sleep it off in the car." Sam was trying to keep a handle on a frustrated, pissed off, on-his-very-last-nerve emotional storm, he really was but—" I mean, what makes you think that you can drink yourself into a fucking semi-stupor and come back here and—and." Sam's mouth slammed shut around the words. For a second he really thought he was capable of killing Dean. The thought made him want to throw up. "Couldn't pull some skank, is that it? Came for second best?"

Yeah—wait, what?" Dean shook his head and turned a sickly yellow. He groaned, grabbed his head, his stomach. "No, that's not. No skanks, no seconds. It's you."

Sam grabbed Dean by his arm and yanked him to his unsteady feet. "Tell you what, Dean. When you can come in here and ask me when you're sober, you do it. Stop making me feel like a whore and maybe things'll work out. _Tace atque abi_ jerk-off."

Dean looked devastated right up until Sam slammed his bedroom door in his face. Sam heard him yell, "Hey! You're not a whore! Or second best, you're—"

Whatever Dean thought he was Sam would never know. One thing he did know was that come morning, Dean had better have cleaned up the vomit in front of his door, god damn it.

Morning brought a brand new day, the section of floor in front of his door pine-scented fresh and shiny, the smell of coffee and pancakes drifting on the air. Sam grabbed his bag. "Late, see you when I get back."

"But I made pancakes."

"Yeah. Sorry." Sam ran out without a backward look—his chest was burning. He knew he was being kind of an asshole—but Dean started it. Playing with him like that. Disrespecting him. That was always Dean's problem. Always treated him like dirt. Sam rubbed his eyes.

Seeing as how it was actually his day off, Sam hung out in the park, watching all the people be people and feeling sorry for himself. That actually felt pretty good, and he congratulated himself on getting self-pity down to an art. The only thing that would make him feel better would be kicking Dean's ass. Or fucking it, but that wasn't likely to happen unless Dean was black-out drunk and Sam finally cracked and lost any bit of sanity he'd managed to wrest out of the hands of fucking demons and douche bag angels….Yeah. Great. Now he was pissed off all over again….

Around noon, he got a call from Bobby. He wrapped up a sandwich he was tearing into emo shreds and answered quickly. Maybe Dean'd figured out he was missing and had sent Bobby searching after him. It could happen. "Hey, Bobby, what's up?"

Without preamble, Bobby started hollering, and Sam rolled his eyes and wondered just why the hell everyone thought they could yell at him like he was some kind of untrainable puppy…and then what Bobby was saying sunk in.

 _"What the hell are you doing to your brother, Sam?"_

Hunh? Doing to _Dean_?

 _"He's pestering me for jobs—thought you all were taking a break from hunting. He's driving me crazy. Says he needs space—can't live with you. Are you being a pain in the ass? Don't even answer that—I know how you can be. You better—"_

Sam hung up. Out of nowhere a thunderclap exploded overhead, a long streak of lightning clawed the sky sideways. Rain poured down like curtains, fast and furious. It was still warm out, so Sam strolled out from the awning he was sitting under and walked around the streets. He remembered how when he was a kid, he'd loved it so much when a summer shower hit, and Dean let him run around behind whatever motel they were stranded at, dashing around in a swimsuit—basically an old pair of Dean's jeans, hacked off at the knees—running around, laughing and Dean smiling at him….

It rained hard, so Sam felt certain he could let it out. He made very little noise. The sun was bright in spite of the downpour. A giant rainbow arched across the sky and it rained and rained.

When it stopped, he had a hotdog and a coke and thought about changes and second chances and destiny and how nice it was just to lean up against a wall and enjoy a pretty good hotdog undisturbed. He shrugged his sopping wet book bag onto his shoulder. Time to go home and start all over again. Sam smiled a little. What the hell…not like this was the first time—probably wouldn't be the last either.


	3. Impossible Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when you survive a thing you never expected to

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dhfpw/)

"So, I guess we need to talk…unh, okay…I get that I behaved like an asshole and then worse by running away. I get that you're pissed off…anyway. I'm sorry. I…I'm not sure what's going on. I don't know why I did. Y’know, _that_. And I don’t have anyone to talk to but you and you're the problem. I mean, I don’t mean problem, I mean—you know. Shit. This is why I don't like talking about shit." Dean's voice dropped lower, though Sam was willing to bet he was in the middle of a desert, in a deep well, with no one around him for a million miles—"yeah, so, um. I. Love you, you know. And unh. We'll talk. Oh yeah, and sorry for, y'know. Yeah."

There was a click, and an empty buzz. Sam saw he'd called from Bobby's kitchen and sighed. Wonderful. Awesome. A fresh new chapter in the book of _Sammy Goes to Hell. Again._ opens. Great. He'd bid bon voyage to the old job and again, had to do it alone. Sam sighed, but at least he had the pleasure of having escaped. Leaving that place—it'd been hard not to invite Dave, his shift manager, to kiss his whole ass as he walked out the door of Book Nightmare for the last time. Sam would never have believed it was possible, but yes, sometimes even being surrounded by books was not the heaven it should have been. If all the job had entailed was him sitting stretched out in one of those ridiculous chairs with a book all day than, yeah, it would have been sweet. More than. But no, it turned out that a bookstore shopper could be just as big an asshole as a grocery shopper. Plus Evil Fucking Cat Lady had _followed_ him, her with her reek of antiquity and evil, incontinent feline.

He really needed to talk to Dean about that woman….

Now here he was with a new job, a degree finished to absolutely no fanfare seeing as how Dean was gone on one of Bobby’s mysterious 'hunting trips', like Sam couldn't see the guilt lingering under his thousand watt smile and warm hand kneading the back of Sam’s neck, sending spiky little shivers into his gut….

Sam shook his head. He leaned forward, planted his elbows on his knees and waited for the bus, glad that for the moment, he was alone in the bus shelter, just him and his frustration and the persistent odor of piss. He shifted his messenger bag between his feet and watched stray candy wrappers twist themselves up into tiny little tornadoes before collapsing into teeny piles of ash at his feet. Fuck. Sam hadn't gotten to know a damn soul from the bookstore well enough for any of them to care, and no way had he been about to call Jerome, because that way led to madness and surprise hand jobs, which at any other time in his life would have been more than welcome but now, just left him feeling edgy and sad.

The bus shuddered to a stop, and Sam concentrated on getting to the back without knocking anyone unconscious with bag or elbow, settled next to an elderly lady who eyed him askance. He remembered a time when every one, including old ladies, had looked at him like he was a favored son….

Sam wrapped arms around his bag and hugged it to his chest. Dean was gone, and Sam wanted to mark the change of his life in some sort of way, and that called up the Winchester Way. Indulge in massive amounts of alcohol and pretend like everything was A-fucking-okay. Yeah, and so what if Oz had cornered him in the elevator, and in the course of the fifty years it took for the damn car to hack and wheeze its way to the lobby, had managed to pry his secrets out of him?

Maybe not so much pry as stand there helplessly while Sam maligned Dean's parentage because it was obvious the damn bastard was no brother of his. Or something like that—Sam still wasn't sure if the maligning came before or after the vats of alcohol. It wasn't like the evening had changed anything. It wasn't like they were friends or would ever be friends. That took more than someone buying you a drink or two dozen, and smiling at you like you'd hit the lottery—wasn't as if some—some _stranger_ understood what finishing meant to him. Sam coughed hard, shrugged off the feeling of vague embarrassment and faint sadness so hard that the person next to him got up and switched seats with a glare. Someone was dropping crazy cooties all over the bus, the look said.

So.

Here he was, getting used to the new job. He was now a clerk in a small law office down town, two steps up from indentured servitude, wearing a suit jacket and a clean button-down everyday, and surprisingly, he liked it. It was a good bit farther out than the last two jobs he had. He took a bus, and transferred, and then walked a block more. Everyday, he rode past a section of the city that was coming back to life…there were rows of skinny, warm, brick-faced houses with big bright windows looking out on roads shaded with big old trees whose roots pushed up the pavement, people walked their happily peeing dogs and joyfully screaming little kids chased their parents up and down the sidewalks on bright plastic trikes and Sam envied it all so hard his ribs ached.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

"Lucy, I'm home—"

"One thousandth time and it's still not funny."

"Aw, c'mon, is too, a little bit…"

"Dean, anything you ever thought was at least a little bit funny, really never was. So. How was the trip?"

"Well. Bobby's got some bizarre idea of a Hunter Hogwarts or something. I spent most of the time trying to get babies to shoot at targets and not each other." Dean dropped his bag in next to the door and headed into the kitchen, detouring to ruffle Sam's hair painfully. It was a typical dick move and Sam hid his smile behind a thrown elbow.

Dean dug around in the fridge, pulled back out with a smirk of triumph and a beer. "So, yeah…I don’t know. Talk about this later. How are _you_ doing, Mr. Graduate? Thought maybe we could go out and celebrate." Dean popped the top off on the counter edge, adding another chip to the vintage formica and cocked an eyebrow as he sucked down the beer.

Yeah, that was typical Dean, too. Figured that Sam had nothing better to do when he was out of town than to hide out in the apartment like a monk. Not. Mostly. "Yeah, Oz already helped me celebrate graduation…but you can help me celebrate the new job." He stopped at the odd flash of hurt that swept over Dean's face—or maybe he hadn't really seen it, because Dean was grinning like a cat and saying, "Oz? Isn't he like, your arch-nemesis or something?"

"Yeah--eat me. No, better yet, feed me."

Den grinned and set the bottle down. "Lemme shower'n' shit and then we can go—your pick. But no salad place."

“How is it my pick if I don’t get to choose where I eat?”

Dean just grinned and sauntered away. Cocky ass, bow-legged sonofa bitch. God, he hated how easy it was to imagine himself with those legs wrapped around his waist….

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

Dean smiled at Sam the whole time he talked about the new job, sympathized when Sam complained about the long ride, nodded when Sam talked about the neighborhood he rode through daily, and how it looked like a diverse neighborhood and not in that "we have a very nice colored gentleman who lives at the end of the block, waaaay at the end," sort of diversity, how quiet and comfortable and lived-in the neighborhood looked. Looked like the kind of place that'd make a good home. Dean was a surprisingly good listener when they weren't talking about him. He nodded and hmmed, lifting an eyebrow from time to time, and occasionally actually looked thoughtful. He asked good questions about the neighborhood, the kind that made Sam's heart squeeze, made him cautiously hopeful. It wasn’t that the apartment was crappy or anything, it wasn’t. It was just…it'd be nice to finally have their own _home._ They deserved their own place, for all that had happened, for what they'd done, the world fucking owed them….

Dean worked through his steak and told Sam more about the last job at Bobby's, how Bobby figured that after "the troubles", a lot of hunters hadn't made it and mostly because they learned their craft on the fly. And most of them just weren't as good as John Winchester had been, or had the instructor that Sam and Dean'd had.

"So…" Dean smiled at Sam and shrugged. "It's just in the thinking stages and who knows? After Bobby sobers up, it might just turn out to be nothing but a fever dream." Dean's eyes roamed all over the place, not meeting Sam's, roamed over a dark-haired, skinny chick who was all red lips and tits, standing alone in a corner.

Sam chewed on his own lip, suddenly found his glass fascinating. "Yeah, well. Sounds interesting. He thinking of doing this in the yard?"

Dean grunted. "No. He's talking about moving operations farther out. I'm not crazy about the site—an old camp grounds…" Dean made a face. "A place you've never been, not in this life."

Sam looked down into his nearly empty glass, which continued to be utterly fascinating. "Oh. So…you coming back with me or staying here?"

Dean looked at Sam like he'd suddenly spun his head on his shoulders. "Ah, thought I was coming back with you? Why? You need me out of the place?” And only Dean could take a few simple words and make it sound like Sam was planning on stripping naked and clubbing baby seals in the bathroom.

“No!” Sam fought to smooth out the pinched lines of his mouth and the ridge in his forehead that he knew were there. “I mean, no, I just didn't want to get in your way. Y'know." And he arched eyebrows and tilted his head towards the slut in the corner— _damn it._ Sam wanted to smack himself for being so fucking possessive and having no reason and she was probably a real nice girl…he glanced at her…but he kinda doubted that.

"Sam. I would like it very much if you came home with me, right as soon as you pay the bill because I think you're making more than me now."

"Hey! I thought this was my graduation present."

"Bitch, Oz gave you that. This was your 'new job' dinner and that means you pay up."

“Do you know how cheap you are?” Sam growled and stood. And froze when Dean was suddenly at his back, a long wash of heat, more heat when his lips moved almost against Sam's jaw and he whispered, "I'll make it up to you later."

Sam was still frozen over the table as Dean walked away, hips swinging, hands jammed into his pockets, pulling his jeans tight over an ass so hot Sam had had dreams about it since he was fourteen years old and denying they meant anything. His ear burned, throbbing from the heat that had curled up the shell and filled all the nooks and crannies, and refused to cool. He rubbed his ear, touched it, determined to commit the feel to memory when it hit him--just now Dean had been stone cold sober and out-and-out flirting with him--fuck, he'd practically been groping him, in public—

Sam gasped. His hand trembled as he traced the shell of his ear and said, "Oh…my god…"

If Dean was possessed, Sam was going to fucking _kill_ him, he thought and ran out after him.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

Dean pushed Sam into the apartment, and Sam stumbled in like he'd never been in the place before. Now that please, finally, maybe they were going to look at this thing…he was oddly reluctant. If he was reading Dean wrong and he'd just been fucking with him, it was going to kill him. And if he was right, and they did do this and it fucked them up, how the hell was he going to live?

"Now is not the time to think, okay? We want to do this, right? I mean, it's not just me, right? I know it's not—fuck." Dean sighed, stepped up, grabbed the back of Sam's neck and pulled Sam right into his mouth. Sam flailed all over Dean's body, hands flying from shoulders to waist to face, he pressed and humped and moaned and shivered and in general behaved like a kid getting his first kiss with a promise of possibly some under the shirt action.

He grabbed Sam's wrists and pushed him back with a laugh. "Oh my god, tell me you're not that smooth all the time!"

"Fuck you," Sam said and felt queasy with embarrassment. "I should have known better." He tried to pull free of Dean's hands but Dean stopped him.

"No, don't—I'm stupid; you know how I get when I'm. You know." He blushed and holy shit, Sam was defenseless against the sight of Dean, blushing, his hands loose circles around Sam's wrists. He was looking away from Sam, lashes sweeping his cheeks and his teeth pressed into his full lower lip and anyone who couldn't see that his brother was beautiful was blind or an idiot or both.

"God. Sorry, but…I've thought about this—too many times. Tried to throw it away so many times but now I know, there's no one. No one left, just. You. You're all I have." Sam swallowed, and tried to force himself to say it out loud but it was too scary to say… _you're all I want._

Dean's eyes widened, his chin jerked up and for a moment his eyes were as bleak as they'd been—before. Sam tugged a little on his wrists and Dean smiled, shaky at first and then, true to form, that smirk Sam had come to love slid into place. "I know, Sam, I know. But it's going to get better, promise you."

Sam couldn't imagine it getting better than this but if Dean thought it could—wow. He grinned, and he felt blood rushing to his face. "Yeah? You promise?"

Dean smirked a little wider, grabbed his hand and pulled him to the bedroom.

The man knew how to give a blowjob. Like, _really_ knew.

 _one guy my asssss...._ Sam was half crazy, from how fucking good it was and how far down Dean's throat he got, and from jealousy. It was distracting bouncing from 'fuck, does he _have_ a gag reflex?', to 'whoever the fuck who taught him that, gonna hunt'em down an' kill 'em good God right there fuuuuuck….'

He wasn't all that surprised that after sucking him down like a Hoover, Dean knee-walked up his chest, licked his lips as though he'd just eaten the best thing ever and proceeded to jerk off onto Sam's chest. All in all, Sam had to say, it'd been a great date. He liked the lying in bed, and licking Dean's hot swollen mouth totally clean of any flavor but Dean. Sure, Dean gave unbelievable head, but Sam knew kissing was something he was damn good at. Dean blowing his load all over his leg about twenty minutes later was pretty much proof of that… maybe in the morning he'd show Dean what else he was good at.  


* * * * 

  
The next morning Dean was gone and Sam…Sam got up, got dressed and went to work. Dean being gone didn't surprise him, it almost didn't disappoint him. This was Dean after all, a guy who thought emotions were something to be wrestled to the ground, salted, burned and buried as deep as was humanly possible. Wasn't like Sam didn't know what he was getting into. And fuck it, it was worth it. Really, it was. Dean walking out without a word? Whatever. It didn't make him feel like he was one of Dean's 'dates', either. Because this? Was about what he'd expected.

So when he got text after text from Dean that day, it was like Christmas every thirty minutes. Jokes--stupid, dirty, goofy jokes that only Dean thought were funny. Hilariously bitchy observations on the milling herd of humanity infesting wherever he was. What he was eating for lunch—

Every text felt like everything Dean hadn't said last night, or this morning. Sam was very well versed in the language of Dean, and Dean was telling him that this time they really were okay. More than okay. It didn't matter so much now that Dean was miles and miles away because Sam was obviously still very much first on his mind.

Work flew by in a Dean-tinted haze.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

Sam was still feeling generous with all the world that evening, so he let Oz in when he knocked.

They were comfortable on the couch, Oz with a little half smile gracing his face. He was Oz-like as usual, sort of cynically amused, but not in an unkind way. Sam snitched the joint from Oz's fingers, noticed that he actually had his nails painted a dark blue. Was that supposed to be ironic, or was it a fashion statement? He also noticed that some of what he'd thought were tattoos were painted on. Oz smiled at Sam, noticed what Sam was noticing. He idly stroked the bracelets that ran up his arm. It made Sam notice too what a lot of lapis and turquoise and jade Oz wore….

Sam coughed out a bit of smoke and said, "I'm…surprised that you decided to visit. Since Dean's not here, y'know."

"I thought you might want some body to talk to." Implying that Sam had some reason to want to talk, but about what, Sam wondered, and what made Oz think he'd to talk him? Sharing some drunken rambling about what a dick Dean was--oh, god—what exactly had he said to Oz that night? Maybe he knew? No, no—so what, it was none of his damn business. And he had a real nerve implying it was. So what if he probably had the strength of ten men in that tiny little cursed body, Sam had some reserves to call on too and—

Oz and he watched the coffee table shift about five inches to the left and the joint went up in a little flare of smoke and ash and the ice and water in their glasses boiled into vapor.

Oz raised an eyebrow and even though he wasn't looking at Sam, it was clearly a 'We need to talk' eyebrow.

Sam glared at him, finally sighed and said, "How do you do it? How do you control your…your thing?"

Oz shrugged, as if the subject of him being a werewolf was something they'd chatted about at length. It was possible…"Meditation, some minor spells, tattoos and a few wards—" he gestured at the painted symbols Sam had taken for tattoos at first glance. "Some of the tats are locks, the henna changes with what I need at the time, but mostly, it's…putting all that stuff together and using your will to control it." He looked at Sam and even if his voice kept its Oz-like cool, there was a thousand yard stare in his eye that Sam knew too well. "Don’t get me wrong, I worked hard at it, and screwed up pretty severely first couple of tries…but eventually, it , you know…clicked."

"How is it Dean didn't blow a hole in you? There's no way he doesn't know—"

"Damien smoothed the way, by the time Dean danced around the subject, he was half on board with it. Still…gotta tell ya, nothing says fun like sitting in a parking lot, watching the moon rise and having a gun trained on you the whole time." His mouth quirked in what was almost a fond smile. "Interesting evening. I think though what's really going on here is that you're jealous and afraid I'm getting between you and your brother and I'm not. Dean's all over you and there's not much room to get in between the two of you. You gotta know, he's all yours."

"What? My—no. What, what do you, 'cause I. We--what?"

"Hey, whatever. You're not hurting anyone. You're not frightening the horses." Oz shrugged. "Both of you could benefit from speaking actual words to each other…"

"What? Horses?" Sam blinked, kind of stuck on the image of horses for some reason—"I talk! He doesn't talk."

"Look, your business is your business. But if I were you, I'd let Dean know that you don't plan on going anywhere he isn't. He's not getting that yet. He…has his issues."

"That's putting it mildly," Sam muttered.

"Well." Oz said. "Think we could get something to drink that won't explode into steam?"

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)


	4. Impossible Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when you survive a thing you never expected to

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dhfpw/)

6

"Do you want to look at some of those houses you were talking about?" Dean asked, in a way Sam would describe as shyly, even kind of uncertainly, if it was anyone but his brother. But here he was, actually offering to look without even having a knee in his kidney--Sam couldn't stop the grin that begged to burst out. Dean offering this was like Christmas and his birthday wrapped into one, if either of them had been anything but grotesque when he was a kid.

This was Dean, trying to give him something again—but this time it was good for the both of them, not just something Dean had decided was good for Sam.

He sidled up to Dean, ducking his head a bit and telegraphing from a mile away, _I'm going to kiss you,_ just in case Dean felt like throwing punches instead, but Dean not only stayed put and kept his hands down, he lifted his chin to meet Sam's mouth. His lashes fluttered down and his mouth softened in a way that…Sam shivered right down to his toes. It would be wrong to knock Dean down and crawl all over him. Very wrong. Dean would punch him in the throat if he did that….

He restrained himself. Instead of knocking and climbing, he just leaned into the kiss Dean offered, nice and slow, coaxing a little more from him, so that soft flowed sweetly into harder, deeper, into teeth and tongue and quiet little moans. Dean's hands came up, grabbed Sam's hair and took charge of the kiss. He seemed to enjoy guiding Sam one way and then the other as he licked and sucked his way right into turning it from a hot kiss, into an act of standing, clothed, sex that had Sam weak in the knees and a hair from coming….

"Un-unh, light-weight," Dean shoved him backwards, and smirked, "we're looking at houses, remember?"

Hard, hot, and wobbling on the edge, Sam gaped at him in horror—"Oh my god, you incredible cock-tease—are you this way with everyone?"

Dean grinned, nodded and said "I am incredible."

"You have selective hearing, don't you? But…you're not like this with everyone, right? There's no everyone, right? Because you. With me." Sam meant to make it sound forceful, but if he could hear the pathetic needy note that threaded through, well….

Head tilted, eyes full of curiosity and maybe confusion, Dean said, "I… want it. You know. However you want it." And then he slapped Sam on the back and walked off, whistling, like he hadn't almost dropped Sam to his knees.

Sam was less than pleased with, what felt like to him, a less than enthusiastic answer but for right now, he was willing to let it go. After all, he was willing to admit this was weird on top of a lifetime of weird. It was going to take a while for Dean to accept this the way Sam did stuff like…well, _this._  
Stuff that couldn't easily be crammed into one box or the other came a lot harder for Dean than it did for him. He never had let details stop him. Once he chose what he wanted, he generally went for it. Sure he could be kind of single minded in what he wanted, occasionally…Sam felt the familiar roll of unease and guilt in his gut but shut it out quickly. This was different. This really was going to benefit them both. This time, he was going after something he knew the both of them wanted. Needed.  


* * * *

  
The ride through Sam's dream neighborhood ended up feeling a little more like they were casing the joint instead of checking out a likely place to settle down…Sam pointed out that there was a park on this end of town too, with a jogging trail and major lighting and what looked like a ball field. Dean concentrated on the fact that the streets were wide and well lit, that aside from the trees, vegetation was kept sheared back and there were few places a person or thing could hide. He watched the people in the street like he was waiting for them to drop everything and rush the Impala, fangs out and ready to rip their heads off….

"It's just a neighborhood, Dean. Just people doing their thing, all they care about is work and kicking back with a few on the weekend, maybe grilling in the back yard, yanking weeds…"

Dean still looked less than enthusiastic, but he managed a smile for Sam, and Sam appreciated it. "Look, Sam…you want this, and we will make it happen." He turned the car back towards their part of town. "Let me talk to Damien. He might have some connects down here. I, uh…I liked that one at the end of the block."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You mean the one that had the bars on the windows and the iron fence all around it? That one?"

"Yeah, Sam, that one. You gonna live in a house, we gotta make sure it's safe for you, right?"

Sam huffed, nodded once. Some things never changed and his brother being a pain in his ass was one of them..."Speaking of Damien, What's up with hiding him?"

"What?" Dean had his eye on the road and looked annoyed that Sam was talking. "The landlord, Damien?"

"Yes. Him. Why haven't I met him?"

"What the hell for? I work for the man. We're not friends."

"I don't know, he seems willing to do anything you want. And don’t hand me that crap about gratitude, you didn't do anything that spectacular. It was just a bust and dust, for crying out loud."

"Are you _jealous_ …of Damien?" Dean cracked up, laughing so hard he went bright red, and was bent over the steering wheel. "First Oz, now _Damien?_ Dude. You got a problem."

"Shut the fuck up," Sam muttered. Damien, probably a pinstriped suit wearing, big diamond ring sporting, greasy haired, fat little sweaty Damien who apparently doted on Dean like a long lost son. Or lobster…of _course_ he wasn't jealous.  


* * * *

  
Sam didn't have time to wallow in his non-jealous concern over Dean's boss. He threw himself into making himself invaluable at work, and keeping an eye on Dean, as much as possible. It came as a surprise when a week or two after their drive-by house hunting, Dean told him Damien had set up a walk through on a town house. Sam hadn't realized that much time had passed. But, Dean was offering—again--so off they went.

They were in the house for about five minutes, and as much as Sam hated to admit it, it was just about perfect, just the kind of place he wished for when he was a hopelessly naïve little kid. A few large windows made the first floor bright. There was plenty of room for books; there was a small but adequate kitchen, just right for two barely proficient cooks. There were two bedrooms and a bath upstairs, and small barred windows that made it a little gloomy but they made Dean happy….a stairway in the kitchen led to an almost finished basement that they could turn into an office, or a place to watch movies with stuff that exploded in it at top volume, the way they should be viewed. There was a yard out back—just big enough to toss a grill and some chairs or give a dog some room to run…and a garage, a real garage to house Dean's real one-true-love.

"Dude. This is perfect. I really want this, Dean."

"Okay. Then we make it happen."

Sam just blinked at the strange man next to him. "No jokes, no mocking? Just instant agreement? Who the hell are you?"

"Hey, what more do you want," Dean snapped, irritated, which Sam didn't get because he was trying his best not to do anything irritating…which could be anything Sam did, in Dean's book, so fuck the asshole for raining on his parade. "I'll talk to Damien," Dean said, but wouldn't meet Sam's eye. What the fuck ever, Sam thought. Later, he'd treat him to grease burgers. Big, drippy burgers stuffed with mushrooms and cheese—always a sure fire way to dislodge the giant stick in his fat ass, Sam smirked. He could afford to be generous. Dean was getting him a house.

Sam looked around once more as Dean dropped the keys into a lockbox on the doorknob, measuring, calculating….it was going to be tight financially, but for people like them, raised to stretch a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter forever, to whom frugal wasn't a word but a lifestyle, yeah. They could do it. They had heart—and the best fake IDs that money and a grateful angel could provide.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

Sam had his spread sheets fanned out over the kitchen table; his 'evil master plan,' Dean called it. With what they'd been able to put down, thanks to a previously unknown insurance of Dad's, or so Bobby claimed, and miraculously solvent bank accounts for both of them, and incredibly solid work records for them both, also miraculous--well, they were going to be the owners of an old, slightly musty smelling but beautiful house in two weeks. And of course Dean decided that this was just the time to take off for Camp Chittybangbang or whatever the place was called. He kind of hated it, sight unseen, since it dragged Dean away so much. This whole thing with the house, and making arrangements and stuff had all fallen onto him…well, it wasn't a hardship, just…he wanted Dean to be involved and Dean was doing his level best not to be. It was grating on Sam's nerves. This was a step they should be taking together, and here he was feeling like he was dragging Dean along like a stubborn puppy.

He took a few relaxing minutes picturing Dean at the end of a leash...a little naked…impossibly obedient…he wasn't sure which part of the fantasy made him happier.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

He woke up disoriented, blinking vaguely into the dark. He'd dreamed Dean was singing to him, _-burned the place to the ground--smoke on the water--_. He blinked again, wondering why he was still hearing it, before he remembered he'd dropped the phone on the nightstand in case Dean called him. He picked up, expecting to see Dean's number but it was Bobby's, and his breath stumbled. No reason to be afraid, Dean was fine….

Dean wasn't fine; he was laid up at Bobby's and needed Sam to get out there, pick him and the car up and drive it back. Sam was more than ready to go out there but mostly to kick Dean's ass. He held that thought close to his heart and cherished it. It was the only thing that made the bus ride bearable.  


* * * * 

  
He was never, ever going to get used to the sight of Dean bandaged, of Dean in pain. He frowned as he elbowed Bobby aside and dropped his bag, lips pressed so tight he was hurting himself. Dean took one look at him and rolled his eyes and it took a breath or two before Sam was able to squash the urge to beat the shit out of him. It never failed to piss him off that he was expected to pass stuff like this off as an occupational hazard, where he barely got a hangnail without Dean losing his shit.

"I'm fine, I'm fine—"

"Shut the fuck up." He caught Bobby sidling out of the room from the corner of his eye. Didn't matter, the house wasn't that big—he'd find the man when he was done with his jerk of a brother.

It turned out, Dean had hurt himself, which surprised Sam by making him even angrier, but he kept that to himself. Demolishing a porch on one of the cabins led to Dean falling through the half-rotted boards and spearing himself pretty nicely with a jagged length. He was hurting and stitched and hobbling—he was lucky. And while Sam agreed with him that it'd be ironic to survive the nightmare shit they'd gone through for the last four years only to be killed by a porch there was nothing funny in it that he could see. Smacking Dean in the head was fully justified and his brother should have counted himself lucky he didn't get knocked unconscious.

And as if that wasn't enough, there was the room at the top of the stairs, the one that was theirs whenever they stayed at Bobby's. There was stuff in it, stuff Dean stashed there--clothes, extra boots and gear, a television that actually worked--what the fuck was up with that? But Bobby wouldn’t talk about it, and Dean was doing that _I'm fine_ shit he did, so Sam just packed his clothes and tossed him in the car, drove him home where he belonged. Neither one of them talked about it, all the way home. Pretty much par for the course, Sam thought. Some traditions would never die.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

Because Dean, for some reason Sam would never get, persisted in thinking he had a sparkling sense of humor, Dean Wesson and Sam Smith now owned their own home. Sam Smith…it never failed to set Sam's teeth on edge. "Just switching those last names around doesn't change a thing. It just…reminds me of the shit those winged dicks put us through."

"Dude, let that shit go. It's done, it's in the past. Besides," he smirked, "Smith's a good solid name—average, right, normal. It's not like we can be Winchesters anymore. I kinda thought you'd be glad to not be one."

Sam shook his head. Trust Dean to never let go of anything crappy, no matter what he claimed. Regardless of what Dean—and Dad—had thought, he'd never been _ashamed_ of being a Winchester. Just because he didn't want what Dean and Dad lived for didn't mean he didn't claim them. Fucking Dean. That was his problem. With him, it was always all or nothing.

They boxed up their possessions—both of them kind of freaked out by how much shit they'd accumulated. Definitely a far cry from the days when a move meant tossing all their earthly belongings in two duffle bags and a tote for the weapons.  


* * * * 

  
They were half way through a long, hot day of ferrying boxes and furniture from the old apartment to the new house, a task made even more…interesting by being watched by the crazy Sixth Floor Lady and her feline minions, when Sam called break. He plopped down on the couch, cracked open a bottle of water and emptied his lungs in a long sigh. He leaned his head back just as Dean passed. Dean took a few steps back, and looked down at Sam's upside down face.

"Hey." He brushed away the long, sweaty strands of hair that had plastered themselves to Sam's forehead. "You happy, Sammy?" he asked, and Sam nodded, smiled at him. Dean leaned over the back of the couch to press a dry little kiss to Sam's forehead. "Good. That's all I need to know." He smiled at Sam for a little longer than Sam expected, and walked another box out to the car.

Sam sat there smiling himself for a little bit, reveling in the fact that they had a place, something like stability, the promise of good things coming with the person he loved most in the world. That warm feeling slid around, dividing itself pretty much evenly between his heart and his dick, when it suddenly hit him-- _what the fucking hell, that stupid sonofa bitch was trying to dump him, fucking *again!*_

He banged through the front door, pretty sure he'd snapped the hydraulic thingy on the screen door, and was out in the street, sweaty, shirtless and yelling at the top of his lungs. Fuck the neighbors—they might as well get used to it, starting now.

"I'm tired as shit of you trying to shuck me off like dead skin all the damn time. I've had it up to here. Why the fuck are you always leaving me?"

"Dude—gross—and how stupid do you think I am? You've been getting ready to go since we got here, and you selfish fucker; you don’t even want me to have a place to go. I thought with the…with…you got past hating me. Should have known better. Shit, it was in your dreams and in your heaven and the way you shoved me aside for that hell bitch and you told me, you flat out told me you wanted to get away from me. It's been a long year, Sam. I'm fuckin' tired. So, I'm going to take all my going away gifts and get gone. You go 'head and make of this what you want, move some girl in here, or, or fuck--some guy, whatever. Have a good life. Just please, please let me have mine, okay? Let me have _something_ out of all this."

Dean's torrent of words swept over him like a rush of lava. "You came here expecting to get rid of me, didn't you? You know what—I _do_ hate you." Sam slammed his fist into the roof of the car, splattering snot and spit and tears that had somehow pooled on the roof. Dean was…he was killing him. He was ripping pieces out of him and it _hurt._ How was it possible, to love someone and make them hurt like that?

Sam lifted his head and saw that Dean was staring at him like he'd shoved a taser into his chest. His eyes were wide, that wide, wet, green stare he got when shit climbed higher than his ability to deal with, when he just couldn't breathe anymore. And then the smile, the one that shrieked _you just hollowed me out,_ appeared like a nightmare out of the past. "I'll call. When you settle in, you'll feel different. Better—"

Sam swarmed around the side of the car and grabbed Dean by his collar, slammed him into the door and pinned him there. He snarled, "Stop it. Stop it, stop it-stop! Stop shoving me away, stop tossing me crumbs—this is us, the way it always was going to be—should be. So grow the fuck up and deal with it!"

"Sam, let go of me, damn it. Let me go, or swear to God I'll fuck you up—"

A sudden wind stripped leaves off the trees around them, ripped a shutter off a window a few houses away—the trash in the gutters flamed, winked into ash and melted bits of metal that were whirled down the block by the wind. "You try and leave me and I'll hunt you down and kill you." There was a faint tinkle of raining slag and the whoop-whoop of car alarms--

Dean's mouth snapped shut with an audible snap. He licked his lips, his eyes skittering over the street, Sam, the car, the street…Sam saw just the littlest smidge of fear in his brother's eyes. _I blew it, I broke him, I screwed up, I ruined everything…_ "…kinda over the top, hunh?" He risked making a joke and hoped, because what else could he do….

Dean gaped at him, eyes even greener against his paled skin, his mouth an open, pink O. He swallowed, blinked…and started to laugh.

"You're fucked up dude--seriously."

"I know! I'm trying to tell you, you keep me on track. Besides, you need me, too. Who gets you like I do?"

"Dude…" Dean deflated, everything about him slumping, looking small, and deceptively weak. "…this is it. I'm risking everything here."

"You stay, I promise you, it's the right thing to do." Sam stepped back, smoothed Dean's shirt down, patted the spot on his chest where his knuckles had pressed. He was pretty sure his brother would have bruises there. He kind of liked the idea. "We're fucked up but we fit, dude. Like puzzle pieces."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Help me get my shit out of the car. Asshole." It made Sam smile wide. "I'm staying. And swear to God, you need to get Oz to help you get a grip on things, dude."

Sam nodded, heard Dean. Knew that meant 'I love all of you. Freak shit included'.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

The last day in their apartment, Sam actually felt kind of…not exactly nostalgic, but something like it. He was tucking the last bits of flotsam into a bag, looking around for anything else they'd left. Yeah, he was definitely feeling kind of fond of the place…things had changed here. Their lives were a constant sate of changes, sure--but here, finally, Sam had hope—and a good feeling--that it was a change for the better.

He wandered across the living room to the window and raised the blinds one last time…crossed his arms and leaned them against the glass. He remembered those first few days there, and watching Dean mow the lawn. Sam smiled to himself. Yeah…the feelings that had brought up. They'd definitely been a shock. He blinked when he realized that Dean had snuck up behind him. He pressed his lips to the back of Sam's neck, breathed. Sam sighed and pressed back against the steady warmth. Dean's hands came up to cup his hips, and he rubbed slightly against Sam, his dick thick, warm, against his ass. "Sam..."

Sam nodded. "Yeah." He slipped the button on his jeans, and let Dean coax them down around his thighs, dragging his boxers with. He spread his legs to give Dean room, enjoyed the feeling of Dean's finger inside him and his thumb rubbing around the rim. It made Sam shiver and push back on him. He rode the feeling, let it escalate and slide back and forth from stomach clenching good, to something that was almost pain, and back again—shocking his nerves over and over. Dean hissed, "shh, shh," in his ear, but drove him higher, wilder, plunging his fingers in and out and grinding against Sam's dick with the other hand. They fell into a rolling rhythm, hips moving together, breathing together. His head rolled back to fall against Dean's shoulder and Dean took full advantage. He sucked and bit Sam's neck, until Sam felt like he was riding a lightning bolt of aching want. "…fuck me, come on."

Dean groaned, "Yeah, okay, okay." He shuffled around behind Sam, managing to elbow him in the back a few times, before he pushed his own pants down with a pleased sigh. Sam felt a slick trail dragged across his ass, Dean's fingers again, wet with something thick and slippery. "Shea butter, it's real good for dry ski--"

"Ah--really? I give a damn? Just do it--fuck!" He felt the hot, wide head of Dean's dick try to push into him. He reached back and spread himself open. It felt good, better when Dean popped into him, sent a jagged burst of lust right through him, made him gasp and shiver. Dean pushed in steadily—relentless. Sam groaned, tried to open himself more, relished every hot, burning inch inside, until Dean's hips cupped his ass and he was seated as deep as he could go. Sam felt him flex and that jagged burst punched him again.

"Um, Dean—" He stroked himself and begged Dean to move and Dean moved—gripped Sam like he was trying to escape and fucked into him slow, deep and hard, told Sam what he was doing, how he looked like sex, with sweat beading his skin, flushed red, swollen around his dick--fucked up, fucked out. How fucking hot it was to watch his dick disappear inside of him…

Sam shuddered, his dick drooled thick and fast as his hand flew, and Dean was gasping, moaning, "This is it—you ready, I gotta, now," he grunted, froze and Sam felt him swell, felt heat as Dean came in him, filling him…Sam jerked and came against the window, slammed a fist against the frame hard enough to rattle the glass and bit his lip. Come dripped down the glass and he smeared it with his body when Dean crashed into him….

Dean clung to him, panting, twitching, his dick making moves like it wanted to come again and Sam groaned. He was fucked out, riding high, happy…brain cells were buzzing and blinking--totally giddy and not helping him in the slightest.

"Come on, you giant perv, get off the window," Dean muttered and pulled him back from the glass. His hands were gentle on him, his grip firm—he wasn't going to let Sam slip, Dean had him.

Life was good.

They'd barely pulled themselves together before there was a sharp singular knock on the door—someone used to instant attention, Sam thought. He answered the door and went blind—he had to have gone blind. There was no way that he was really seeing what he was seeing. The guy on the doorstep was tall as him, taller, had long, wild, black hair that should have looked romance-novel douchy but set off his whiskey colored eyes perfectly. He was the kind of golden brown that sunlight couldn't make…a caramel so sweet it was lickable. Sam hoped desperately that his brain would wake up before Dean came along because a sick twisting in his gut told him that this Greek god in a suit so expensive even he could tell it cost a bundle, and cliché open collared white shirt was--

"Hey, Damien."

Of course.

Sam found himself incapable of blinking. His mouth might have been open a little and his forehead just might be creased some and there was a distinct possibility of flaring nostril….

"Dean, my friend—sorry you're leaving the apartment. Joy in your new home. Sadly, your salary remains unchanged. But our arrangement continues. Your Sam?" he asked barely flicking a glance over Sam. "Very handsome," he said, in a tone of voice that made his complete disinterest plain.

He turned his attention back on Dean and Sam felt the heat like a thousand watt bulb and Dean…was as oblivious to it as he'd ever seen him be. It was kind of…scary, how oblivious he was. He turned his eyes to Sam and smiled, and said, "Yeah, he's my Sam." and Sam felt like a fool but couldn't help the goofy smile, or the blush that warmed his face.

Damien continued, "And if this does not work out, feel free to inquire about the apartments here. I assure you there will always be one for you," he glanced at Sam again, "if your…Sam… should find other things to occupy himself."

Dean turned red himself and practically shoved Damien out of the door, thanking him, assuring him that he'd work just as hard as if he still lived in the building...

He leaned against the closed door as if to hold it shut. "Yeah, that wasn't awkward. The guy's such a…a…well, I'm not sure what he is, exactly."

"Hmm. We'll talk about it later…a lot."  


* * * * 

  
They locked the door on the apartment, and headed out to the lot and the Impala, sitting under the sun.

"Can you believe it?" Dean said, running his hand over her hood, patting her roof. "We're all alive, all mostly in one piece and we're all together." He grinned at Sam over the roof, the bright sun picking out the wrinkles around his eyes, the sprinkle of gray in his hair. He was beautiful, Sam thought. He was beautiful and all his.

"Yeah," Sam said and shoved his bag into the back seat. "I love you too."

They pulled out of the parking lot, and passed Oz lugging a garden hose back to the shed. Dean punched the horn, and Oz turned to face them. He caught Sam's eye, gave a little satisfied nod of his head and Sam…Sam just leaned back against the warm vinyl, smiled and closed his eyes.

And They Lived Happily Ever After

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000dgrp0/)

10-14-2010


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